


The Network

by maypoison



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Detective, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Homeless Network, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Setting, Multi, Pregnancy, Reader Insert, Slow Build, The Network - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 75,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maypoison/pseuds/maypoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You started working with the world famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes to earn some money, but it quickly became something much more. You tracked down an escaped puma, saved the people of London from toxic bombs; not to mention saving a kidnapped Mrs Hudson from a so called 'enemy' of the famous the detective. Sherlock respects you, Mycroft is impressed by you, and Mrs Hudson owes you her life. Not to mention you have become good friends with Molly Hooper, John Watson and Detective Lestrade himself. You may still be homeless, but you are definitely not alone anymore ... </p><p>Now, you remain a faithful member of the Homeless Network, aiding Sherlock on his cases, and become an even more regular visitor to 221B Baker Street now that John Watson has a very pregnant wife to care for.  These ten short stories tell your story as the key member and leader of The Network, and catalogue your growing relationship with the Detective, turning into something you never thought it would be.</p><p>Featuring modernised and updated versions of some of Arthur Conan Doyles most famous and well love Sherlock Holmes stories including The Dancing Men and The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Problem of Vauxhall Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Problem of Thor Bridge. Sherlock Holmes is approached to clear the name of a Nanny who has been arrested under the suspicion of murdering her employer. You are enlisted by the detective after your brilliant involvement in previous cases, but this time Sherlock will be watching you more closely than ever to see if you have what it takes to become a key member of The Network.

**John Watson POV**

“Sherlock?”

I am greeted with complete silence as I enter the London flat. That wasn’t a new scenario at 221B. My old friend Sherlock Holmes would often disappear on a case at the drop of a hat, but after the man had invited me to be here, I had assumed he would at least been here to greet me.

I walk over to the desk on which I used to place my computer. It is now overflowing with documents; so many that I don’t even bother trying to investigate any. It would take me all day to read what I’m sure would take Sherlock just a few minutes.

I suddenly hear footsteps climbing up the wooden flight of stairs leading to my old flat, and realise rather quickly that it is not the sound of the detective.

“Oh! John dear, you gave me a fright!” Mrs Hudson says, clutching a hand over her heart. She smiles warmly at me, shaking her head at her own misplaced fear.

“Ah Mrs Hudson. Is err … is Sherlock here?” I ask, watching as the woman almost sneaks into the all but destroyed kitchen.

She begins to move some of the used utensils into the sink, and I smile as I watch my old land lady begin to clear away Sherlock’s mess. ‘Not your Housekeeper’ indeed.

“I don’t know love. I’ve just come up to sort out this mess. It’s the only chance I get!” She laughs, but then grimaces as she looks more closely at the contents of what was no doubt a failed experiment of some kind. “I honestly thought he might have got better, but look at this place!”

“Do you know where Sherlock’s gone?” I ask again, trying to gain the distracted woman’s attention from the war zone of a kitchen.

“I mean, even the fridge!" Mrs Hudson continues, apparently not have heard my comment "Oh … I don’t even want to know what’s in there altogether.”

She shakes her head as she closes the fridge door with her hip, whilst in the other hand she holds an old plastic bag as far away from herself as possible. I dread to think what it contains.

“Did he, pop out or something?”

Mrs Hudson turns to me after placing the bag and its contents in the bin, and runs her hands down her apron the clean them as best she can. The woman frowns then to herself. 

“Well I did hear him on the phone this morning … But you know Sherlock. He’s always texting …”

“Texting who?” I ask, now much more curious.

The only people I knew to text Sherlock regularly were myself, his brother Mycroft and Lestrade. It definitely wasn’t me that he had been talking to, and I sincerely doubted it was his brother, as they barely really talked to each other. I can only assume that it means Sherlock must have picked up a new case from Lestrade. 

“I don’t know dear." Mrs Hudson continues with a shrug. "The man never tells me anything. Chance would be a fine thing!”

“Well if he does come back, let me know” I say, smiling warmly again at the woman, before turning to make my way towards the stairs.

I know now if I don’t leave in this window of silence, then lord knows how long I could be here. The woman talks as much as Sherlock doesn’t.

“Of course John.”

Mrs Hudson smiles at me as I turn to walk away, but quickly catches up behind me before I can make it down the stairs. “And how’s Mary?”

“Yeah she’s … she’s good thanks” I respond, for once being completely honest about my heavily pregnant wife.

“Ah good.”

I nod at her response, before turning again to leave. “It’s a shame we don’t see more of you here, but I suppose that’s the way of things now. What with the baby coming soon …”

“I month and 13 days to be exact.” A voice calls from the stairs.

Sherlock comes bounding up the staircase quickly, seeming not at all shocked or even surprised to see Mrs Hudson and I in his living room. 

“How could you … Oh never mind” I say, seeing absolutely no point in asking how my friend could possibly know Mary’s due date that well. 

“John.” Sherlock greets me with a small smile, as he peels off his leather gloves and places them down onto his desk.

“Where have you been?”

“Scotland Yard. Just finishing up a case with Lestrade …” Sherlock responds distractedly.

It’s an odd thing to witness, the great and focused detective peering out of the window onto the street. He pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and begins to check something on it.

“Waiting for a call?” I ask, trying to peer over to see what had my friend so enamoured.

“What?” The man says, turning to me quickly. “Oh yes actually. I was trying to get in touch with someone …”

“Who?”

“Is she still not answering dear. Oh that is worrying …” Mrs Hudson says as she appears from the kitchen, drying a plate with a floral dish towel that I know for certain is not the property of Sherlock Holmes.

“Who?”

“Maybe you should go and see if she’s alright Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson comments kindly, ignoring my question.

I glance over at Sherlock as he furiously types a message, no doubt to however he was looking for.

“Who are we looking for?” I ask again, stepping further into the room.

“I don’t have the time to be running around London in search of a homeless woman. I’m far too busy …” Sherlock responds coldly, pocketing his phone and picking up his violin bow.

At the word ‘homeless’ I immediately recognise who they are searching for.

“How long have you been trying to reach her?” I ask, relatively concerned. 

“Two days ….” 

“Two days!” I exclaim, and Mrs Hudson looks as worried as I feel. 

“I’m sure everything’s alright. Just busy with a case …”

Sherlock tries to reassure me, but I can tell he doesn’t really believe his own words. Even busy with a case, You would never actively ignore Sherlock's messages, and certainly not for two days. 

“She’s not answering her phone?” I ask Sherlock.

“No.”

“And … you’re not worried.” 

Sherlock frowns, apparently confused by my comment “Worried, why would I be worried?”

“Well you seem …” I pause, trying to find the right words. I couldn't remember I time when I had seen the detective appear so anxious.

“Seem what?” Sherlock probes, and I clear my throat to fill the awkward silence. 

“On edge … concerned … anxious”

“Yes thank you John, I think that’s enough synonyms for worried.” The detective answers as he rolls his eyes. 

“Why don’t you try one more time Sherlock, just to put us all at ease.” Mrs Hudson asks from the kitchen, nodding to where the man had just placed his mobile back in his pocket. 

“Very well.”

Sherlock presses a key and holds his phone to his ear. It does not escape my attention that You are on Sherlock’s speed dial, along with myself and Lestrade. You wondered when that had happened ... 

Mrs Hudson remains in the doorway of the kitchen, watching intently for any signs that he has a response.

“Nothing?”

“No.”

“What about Mycroft, he could try …” I suggest, watching as Sherlock begins to shake his head as he checks his phone again.

“He did, yesterday. Had no luck either”

Well that definitely wasn’t good. If You were ignoring Sherlock for some reason, then at least that was understandable. But ignoring a phone call from Mycroft Holmes? There was no way.

“Well now I am getting worried.” Mrs Hudson mutters, anxiously cleaning a plate with much more force than was necessary. 

“Can we all stop saying worried. It’s starting to get annoying …” I say, trying not to sound too sharp. After all, everyone was worried and stressed, and the last thing I wanted was to cause any more drama. 

“Someone should go find her.” Mrs Hudson muses from her place in the kitchen.

“John.” Sherlock says simply in his deep monotone, and Mrs Hudson is already nodding determinedly. 

“What?” I turn to see Sherlock glancing at a way that leaves no room for argument. “No”

“I didn’t even suggest anything …” The man says innocently, placing his violin on his shoulder.

“I can’t Sherlock," I answer with a sigh "Mary's at home alone and I promised I wouldn’t be out late …”

“I’m sure this won’t take too long.” He says casually.

I turn and see Mrs Hudson’s worried expression, and glare and Sherlock’s smiling one. The bastard.

“Where is she?” I ask, and Sherlock's face breaks out into a even wider smile. 

“Last time I heard, with under The Docklands or The Arches. There’s communities that are based there most of the time. I'm sure there’ll know where she is.”

“Great”

I wasn’t fond of that particular area of London, less so now that I know that is where our lost friend was currently staying. It makes me uneasy, and my thoughts distract me.

“And John…”

“Yes?” I say, turning to Sherlock who is currently sat in his seat near the fire, his violin in his lap.

“Don’t be long.”

The comment startles me, as it doesn’t sound like a request. It sounds more like a plea.

“I’ll find her.” I answer seriously, and I mean it. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but looks at his instrument like it is the most interesting thing in the room. I turn and leave the flat, zipping up my coat as I go.

“I do hope she’s ok.”

“Not to worry Mrs Hudson. She is one of the more capable homeless people I have encountered.” Sherlock says, beginning to pluck at his violin.

“Oh, well ok then” Mrs Hudson says cheerily, and I can tell she is now beginning to rustle around in the kitchen sink.

Walking down the creaking stairs to the door, I hear as Mrs Hudson begins to ramble on about our lost companion. I can almost see Sherlock rolling his eyes.

“Tea?” I hear Sherlock grumpily request from his landlady, making me smile to myself as I depart from the flat in search of our mutual friend.

 

**Reader POV**

“So, I smack the knife out of his hand, and it falls to the floor ‘right … clatters well loud, and we both stop dead. Thinking … oh bollocks!”

“That is not what happened Wiggins.” You interrupt, sounding bored. The man could talk for England, which wouldn’t be that bad you suppose, if it wasn’t all complete bullshit.

“’Ere shut it spoilsport. I’m telling the story …”

You sigh, sitting up in your sleeping bag to glare over into the darkness, where Billy Wiggins was currently sat with several companions. 

“John sprained your arm, you cried like a baby and they gave you a lift to the hospital.” You state, holding up your hand and listing off each of the incidents on your fingers as you speak. 

“I did not cry!” Wiggins whines, and it makes the two women he had been talking to burst out laughing.

“Did you meet ‘im though? Holmes?” A man from across you all says, as he warms his hands on an open fire pit.

“Yeah, of course! I’m the man’s protégée.” Wiggins says, far too smugly for your liking, turning to the man with an extremely annoying expression.

“Nope” You state quickly, not even bothering to look up to refute your argument. You were sure no one was actually going to buy this …

“I am!” Wiggins’ protests loudly, and his companions laugh once again.

“You’re his lackey.” You argue, trying not to roll your eyes "You just run around for him ..."

“No love, that’s your job.” Wiggins argues back, another smug look creeping onto his face.

“I am not his lackey. I’m his …” You pause then, drawing out the word.

In the short time you had been working with Holmes, you had worked with his brother, his best friend and saved his land lady from certain death. You were therefore complete bemused as to what your relationship status was with the man. Surely, you wouldn’t be able to call him a friend. Could you?

“Yeah? What are ‘ya?” Wiggins insists, still be annoyingly conceited.

“His … assistant.” You supply, with a triumphant look on your face.

“Yeah right. I’ve helped him out more than you.”

“Well that’s definitely not true.” You reply,grunting as you move to stand up from your stained and ripped sleeping bag. 

“Listen, we all know that _I’m_ telling the truth …”

“Bolton!” You suddenly scream loudly, startling Wiggins as well as the few people that surround you.

“Yeah?” The man replies from a short distance away, sounding relatively sleepy but not apparently annoyed about being woken up.

“What did Wiggins tell you the other day?” Silence. “About the royal family …” You prompt, waiting for the man’s response from across the vast space.

“Nah wait …” Wiggins starts to protest, looking around to where Bolton lies, swaddled in old blankets. The two women that surround him start to giggle at his perplexed expression.

“Oh, that he helped them out” Bolton replies, and you see his swaddled form begin to turn towards you. 

“With …” You prompt again, smiling to yourself as you hear Wiggins’ exasperated voice, denying everything.

“Their security systems.”

“Alright, I’ll admit that was bollocks, but this is true! I am the man’s protégé; even met his parents.”

“What? When?” Wiggins catches your genuine shock and surprise, which only moves to full the man's smug expression more so than before. 

“A few months back, at Christmas.”

“Oh” You say, feeling rather defeated.

Sherlock had never even mentioned his parents in the few months you had been working for him. You had to admit that Wiggins won that round, although you really did think that Sherlock wouldn't agree with the idea that Wiggins was anything other than just another member of The Network. There were hundreds of you all around London afterall, all of whom would talk to Sherlock nearly every day. 

You walk away from the group for a while, intent on warming yourself over the firepit, and listen to even more of Wiggins stories in the background. You made a mental note to question Sherlock about them next time you saw him. Or, as you then corrected yourself, _if_ you saw him again. 

 

“You alright over there?” The voice of Bolton startles you awake, and you open your eyes slowly, trying to get them to adjust to the dark.

“Yeah no problem.” Another voice replies.

“Is that … John Watson?” You murmur to your neighbour, and Wiggins shoots up awake quickly.

“Who?” Someone else asks, and you are too busy trying to wake yourself up to respond.

“No doubt looking for me” Wiggins says smugly, sending you a wink. You laugh quietly at the man’s antics, and begin to rise from under your covers. Wiggins approaches the outline of a man, and you see him hold out his hand for a shake. “Mr Watson, pleasure as always.”

“Do I know you?” You bite your lip to stifle your laughter.

“Wiggins. Billy Wiggins …” The man says slowly, trying no doubt to jog John’s memory.

“Nope. Sorry”

“You sprained my arm and I drugged your pregnant wife at Christmas last year …” Wiggins says quickly, and you wonder if the man was looking for John to sprain his other arm.

“Oh. Of course, Mr Wiggins. Pleasure as always.” John says, and you note the man’s famous sarcasm.

“John?” You call as you clamber over to him and Wiggins in the dark.

“Oh, thank god! Are you alright?”

“Well beside being stuck with this guy spouting absolute nonsense about a certain detective, I’m fine.” You point over to Wiggins, who crosses his arms defiantly.

“It’s not nonsense.” He grumbles, and you laugh.

“You should hope not …” You reply, raising your eyebrow in mocking. You would love to see Sherlock’s reaction to knowing that half of the population of homeless believed Wiggins was all but Sherlock’s best friend and advisor.

“We were all worried.” John says suddenly, drawing your attention back to him.

“We?” You ask, ignoring Wiggins who dejectedly slumps back over to his homemade bed, grumbling something about being underappreciated.

“Sherlock’s been trying to call you for two days. Even Mycroft tried to get hold of you apparently …” John says, shifting between his two feet and looking you’re your shoulder, no doubt investigating your sleeping companions.

“Really?”  You ask, bemused. Getting a personal call from Mycroft was odd, and it definitely meant something important was going on. Either that or you were needed to pick up explosive bottles again …

“Yeah.” John says, before turning back to you with a smile. “Come on, your needed …”

You smile, before turning back to your homemade bed quietly, trying carefully not to make too much noise and wake anyone. “Well I can’t argue against that can I?”

“Bring all your things” John says suddenly, looking as you had just picked up your rucksack and left your pillow and sleeping bag. You usually kept your collection of old magazines and newspapers as well. You tried not to draw attention to the fact that most of these newspapers had the words ‘Sherlock’ or ‘Holmes’ inscribed on the covers in huge block capitals.

“Why?” You whine childishly, eliciting another smile and chuckle from John, who moves to help you roll up your sleeping bag.

“Come on” John encourages when you finish gathering up all your belongings. You walk alongside the man quickly as he carries your carrier bag full of things you had collected. It was useless, but it felt nice for you to have possessions to your your own. “You’ll be the one explaining to Mrs Hudson that you had her worrying for no reason.”

You chuckle, before thinking honestly about forming some sort of apology. You and the woman had become close after working to rescue her. You hated the fact you had made her needlessly worry. Just as you exit the dark and begin walking along the streets of London, you remember your phone lying heavily in your coat pocket.

“Hang on, let me check my phone.”

“Problem …” John asks, watching as you frown at the device and struggle to turn it on.

“No battery.”

“You’re kidding.” John deadpans, looking at you like you’re a complete fool.

“I’m so sorry John.” You reply with a smile, laughing at your own idiocy. Usually Mrs Green at the café you frequent lets you charge your phone when you visit. Obviously on your last trip you had been too busy drinking tea to remember.

John scoffs and you continue to walk together, enjoying the company and watching as other people walk around the buzzing city. “I can’t believe you were worried about me …” You muse, smiling shyly at nothing in particular.

“Well of course.”

You look over to your friend to send him a grateful smile, but notice that he is engrossed looking over his shoulder at where you had just come, a frown etched over his features. “You ok?”

“Yeah, sorry.” The man clears his throat, and you smile again. It was a habit of his that you had become familiar with.

“You been down there before?” You ask, gesturing with your head to your recent sleeping quarters.

“Once, a long time ago…” John trails off, stopping to check the traffic on a busy crossing.

“For a case?” You prompt, genuinely curious if you maybe had been present when John and Sherlock had investigated the place before you had met them.

“What else.” John replies, and you laugh together.

“So what did Sherlock want?”

“Just said he wanted to see you, and while you’re there you can charge your phone.” John replies gruffly, sending you a warning look which you now know is purely him teasing.  

“Sounds like a plan” Suddenly remembering your other companion, you stop suddenly “Oh, but what about Wiggins?”

“He looked comfy, would be a shame to go back and wake him.”

“Agreed.” You say, catching up with John as he walks.

“Come on, we can get fish and chips on the way,”

“Dr Watson, you do know how to spoil a girl.” You tease, smiling warmly at your friend.

“You’re paying.”

You roll your eyes, amused by the man’s humour. You had missed him terribly these past few weeks you realise. “And there’s the John Watson I know…” You laugh, which only becomes louder when you notice the man’s comically annoyed expression.

Your laughter trails off as you continue walking, wondering all the while what the great Sherlock Holmes could possibly want you for this time …

 

 

Climbing the creaking stairs up to 221b was always an experience in itself. Usually, you could tell the mood of the detective from the noises that descended from the upstairs rooms. A melodious violin performance, the sound of pacing on a wooden floor, even some rapidly fired gunshots. But what greeted you that evening as you entered the building unnerved you more so than the sound of gunfire. There was complete and utter silence.

“Mrs Hudson will be in bed no doubt” John says, noting probably your discomfort and questioning gaze.

“And Sherlock?” You ask, moving to allow John to walk up the stairs before you.

“Dunno” The man says, shaking his head quickly “Maybe he’s working …”

Upon entering the flat, you breathe a sigh of relief. Sherlock sits up stiffly on the end of the well-worn sofa, his long pale fingers caved under his chin.

“You’re alive I see” The detective says in his low timbre voice. He sounds neither angry nor annoyed you note, which could only be a good thing.

“I survived an escaped mountain puma … and your brother. Give me some credit.” You reply, handing your coat to John who moves to hang it on the hook. The action makes you smile, with the man’s chivalry not even allowing him to pause or make a comment on the state of your torn and dishevelled coat.

“Tea?” John asks kindly, sending Sherlock an odd look after the man makes a quick sound which sounded oddly like a laugh.

“Please.” You reply, before taking a seat in John’s chair near the fire. You’ve known Sherlock long enough by now to know that you even thinking about sitting in his chair would mean he would have to burn it.

You watch the detective for a few minutes, listening all the while to John who rattles around in the kitchen. It seems the man remains comfortable with 221b despite his new living arrangements. Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he sends you a cold look.

“You didn’t answer your phone” He drawls, before standing and moving over to his chair opposite you.

“Sorry, battery ran out. Plus I’ve been busy …” You reach into your pocket and pull out a scrap of paper that you had been keeping close for many days now. “Every single person I could find. There may be more, but this is it for now …” You hand the man the list of names, and he quickly checks it over before putting it in his suit pocket. He doesn’t utter a thank you, but at this point, you are very much use to it.

“Here” John’s voice startles you, and you smile gratefully as you take the cup the man hands you.

“So, what’s the case?” You ask Sherlock, cradling the warm cup in your ice cold hands. You blow on the steam that rises from the liquid, sending it swirling up into the dark flat.

Sherlock, ignoring your childish activities, reaches over towards John and his desk and pulls over a small file. “Mrs Gibson, found dead on Vauxhall Bridge two days ago.” He recites, handing you the file before quickly retracting his hand. You were surprised the man didn’t sanitize his hands right there and then.

Opening the file, you first see a picture of the dead women. She had clearly been shot in the head. Blood was all over the road and pavement. It was a total mess, almost making you relive the fish and chips John had so kindly purchased for you that evening. “Jesus … and in my neighbourhood to.”

“I didn’t know you lived under the arches?” John asks offhandedly, cradling his tea in his hands in a similar manner to you.

“I don’t usually, but sometimes it’s warmer down there. And drier …”

“Miss Grace Dunbar, the nanny.” Sherlock interrupts, noting that you had been studying another picture in the file closely. The woman was stunning, with long red hair and a young face.

“They had kids then?” You ask Sherlock, making an assumption. The man just rolls his eyes at your comment, before leaning over to gesture to another picture.

“Two.” The children are young, you guess no older than five years old.

“So they must have been happy then …” Sherlock frowns at that. “They were happy enough to make kids.” You supply, flicking through the file further to begin reading the post mortem report.

“Mr Gibson has contacted me, and has all but begged that I clear Miss Dunbar’s name from the murder.”

“The nanny? She’s a suspect?” You ask perplexed. The woman looked young and innocent, but as you very well knew, appearances could be deceptive.

“They both are, they were the last people to see Mrs Gibson alive.”

“Suicide?” John supplies from his spot near the desk. He opened Sherlock’s laptop in the time you had been reading, and you see that he is looking at a news report of the incident.

“No, no motivation that we know of. Plus the open location shows no planning or thought on the deceased’s mind …”

“You mean if she wanted to kill herself, why not just jump off the bridge?” You interrupt Sherlock, causing the man to roll his eyes again. He did that often in your presence you note.

“That to.”

“So what did the autopsy report show?” John asks you, looking over from an online news report in which the headline read ‘Murder on Vauxhall Bridge’. Original.

“One bullet wound to the side of the head, no other lacerations or wounds of the body. Would have been there around an hour before someone found it” Sherlock recites, his identic memory answering the question despite you having the report open on your lap.

“Her.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock frowns at your comment, and you look up from the open file to address him.

“It’s her Sherlock not it. She’s a person not a thing.”

“She’s a body in a morgue, don’t get sentimental.” He says coldly, avoiding your gaze and instead looking into the roaring fire.

“So why do you need me?” You ask, closing the file and placing it carefully on the table in front of you. You learnt to spare the detective from having to touch you when not necessary.

“The police have no other leads other than the husband and nanny, but can find no motivations for them wanting her dead. I needed an outside opinion” … other than John you add internally. Looking over to the man who gives you a small knowing smile.

“Suicide” Sherlock’s eyes widen at your answer, and before he can refute you continue, somewhat smoothly “…would be my first guess. I don’t know. It’s odd though.”

“What’s odd?” John asks, his attention returning to the laptop as he stills listens to your conversation.

“This man …”

“Neil Gibson.” Sherlock supplies, and you nod.

“Gibson, well he’s in the frame for killing her as well, but …”

“But here he is begging me to clear the nanny and not himself.” The detective states quickly, and you understand then the man’s dilemma.

“Do you think he did it?”

“Nope.” Sherlock pops the ‘p’ as he speaks, a habit your notice he had been doing recently. You blame the company of Wiggins for that particular habit.

“And the nanny?”

“Not her MO from what I can deduce. But I haven’t met her.”

“And that’s where I come in.” You say, smiling before taking a huge swig of now lukewarm tea.

“That’s where you come in.” The detective replies, smiling at you genuinely.

John clears his throat suddenly and the noise makes you startle. He begins to rise from this place by the desk, putting on his jacket as he stands. “Well I better be heading off. Mary will wonder where I’ve gotten to.”

“Nice to see you John.” You say to the man as he moves to put his used cup in the kitchen. A habit you wonder if Mary had anything to do with …

“You too sweetheart, make sure you have a hot shower and some food before you head out.”

“Will do …” You say quietly, before quickly looking over at Sherlock. This was no longer Johns house you remember, and you wondered if you were going to annoy the detective by helping yourself to his bathroom and a hot meal. Or more like a mixture of chemical waste you correct, remembering once when Sherlock had you venture into his ‘fridge’.

“Woo hoo.”

“Ah Mrs Hudson …” You turn from Sherlock to see the charming landlady enter the room with an enormous smile on her face, one you can’t help but return.

“Oh you’re here darling! Thank goodness!” She makes to move towards you for a hug, and you quickly rise to greet her.

“I wouldn’t do that Mrs Hudson, unless you want to be permanently scarred from the smell.” Sherlock drawls, and you childishly stick your tongue out at the detective you seemed to be enamoured by something in the file you had previously been reading.

Suddenly the man stands, moving to collect his coat and put it on before moving to collect your own, with only a small look of disgust as he investigates your battered jacket. Progress you think, as he hands it to you gingerly.

“Heading off then?” John asks from the doorway, you had stopped to greet Mrs Hudson and watch your interaction.

“Yes, we have interviews to conduct.”

“Now? It’s nearly midnight Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson exclaims as you begin to put on your coat.

“Is it?” Sherlock asks quietly, looking around the room for a clock.

“Sherlock, can’t this wait until tomorrow.” John asks reasonably, looking at his friend with an affectionate frown on his face.

“Grace won’t be available …” You suggest, trying not to make it too obvious that you would rather do anything else than conduct interviews at this time in the day.

“Fine.” Sherlock says after a moment, dejectivley pulling off his coat and putting it on the back of his chair, before all but falling into it. He closes his eyes and you know that that’s the last you will be hearing from him tonight. You watch as Mrs Hudson enters the kitchen with a determined look on her face, and take that as your cue.

“And where are you going?” John says as you move to follow him down the stairs and into the cold mist of London.

“Home. Well when I say home …” You trail off, trying to make light of your sleeping arrangements. “I’ll be back in the morning.” You call over your shoulder, not hoping for a reply but needing to have witnesses to prove that you did inform the man you were leaving.

“Hmmph.” The detective grumbles in response, surprising you enough that you turn to look at the man, your eyebrows raising in surprise that he was still paying attention.

“Wait, stay here tonight.” John whispers stopping you from walking any further down the  hallway.

“What?” You pause your efforts to gather your belongings, looking at the man closely.

“Take my room upstairs. It’s the least we can do since we dragged you here so late.”

“But Sherlock …” You turn to where the man remains, sitting with his neck resting on the back of his leather chair, his head facing the ceiling and his pale blue eyes shut tightly.

“Will be like that for hours.” John says, a small knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Thank you John.” You say sincerely. The man truly was a true gentleman, not something you had come across that often during your time in London.

“No worries. See you tomorrow.”

John sweeps down the stairs quickly, no doubt eager to return to his very pregnant wife. You had never met Mary, and were interested to do so. Anyone who loved and married John must be good in your book.

“Night Mrs Hudson.” John calls to the woman from the bottom of the stairs, and she responds cheerily. You hear as John closes the door to the building loudly, and watch as Mrs Hudson finishes cleaning the kitchen.

You stand awkwardly for a few seconds. John had clearly given you permission to use his room, but you still felt awkward. You stand with your rucksack on your shoulder, your coat in your hand and a torn expression on your face. You turn to Mrs Hudson as she walks out of the kitchen into the hallway.

 “Have a good night dear.” She says sweetly, before embracing you in a small but motherly hug. Too shocked to do anything else, you simply smile back, watching as the woman slowly retreats downstairs to 221a.

 “Night Sherlock.” You say over your shoulder, watching as the man continues to sit in his obviously uncomfortable position by the fire.

The detective remains completely silent, but you do not try for a reply. Instead you slowly and quietly begin walking up the small staircase to John’s old room, careful not to disturb the thinking detective.

With your back turned to the man, you do not see Sherlock open his eyes, and send you a curious look, before closing his eyes again, and adding a new room to his ever expanding mind palace.

 

Lestrade and his team are already at the Gibson’s London townhouse when you arrive in the early hours of the morning. You had been unable to sleep, Johns amazingly comfortable bed being … just too comfy. You were not use to the luxury, and could not escape the feeling you were going to sink into the covers at any moment.

The Detective Inspector smiles warmly when he sees you and you resist the urge to give him a hug.

“You’re alive!” Sherlock rolls his eyes and you laugh “He found you then …”

“Wasn’t that hard …”

“John found me” You interrupt Sherlock before he has a chance to begin talking about patterns of movements and last known locations. “And he bought me fish and chips.”

“Good man, god knows you deserve it after putting up with this idiot.”

Sherlock scowls at Lestrade, and you hold back a laugh.

“Go ahead, we’re checking the upstairs rooms and talking to the husband, the Nanny’s all yours …”

Sherlock sweeps past him before he even finishes his sentence, looking determined and fierce as ever. Greg rolls his eyes as you pass him, and you send him a warm smile. You truly did like that man.

The woman waits for you in the living room as Lestrade had said, and rises and you both enter the room. She is beautiful, and you feel awkward in your faded jeans and own clean blouse that Molly had so kindly gifted to you. Sherlock had rolled his eyes after you had appeared wearing it this morning, claiming he was worried I was also going to ‘start dressing like a cross between a preschool teacher and a seven year old school girl’.

“Miss Dunbar, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my companion …” Sherlock doesn’t say your full name, and you wonder in that moment if he had forgotten it or was trying to make you sound more qualified by introducing you using a honorific.

“Sherlock Holmes, ah yes” She shakes his hand quickly, before returning to her seat. “Heard all about you. So you’ll be interviewing me …”

“Actually, that job goes to my associate today.”

Even though you and Sherlock had discussed this, your heart still races a bit quicker when he says it. Sure you had interviewed people for him before, but never with him present. You were worried enough as it is about asking a stupid question.

Grace makes a motion for you to sit, and you pull out your small note pad. John had kindly given it to you a few months prior, and you loved it. It made you feel like a real detective.

“So Grace, is it alright if I call you that?”

“Absolutely.” The woman says, and you continue with a small smile.

“Grace, how long had you worked for Mr and Mrs Gibson?”

“Six years, I was hired whilst she was pregnant with her first child.” You make a note, still wondering whether Sherlock was about to jump into the conversation …

“When was the last time you saw Mrs Gibson.” It was a cliché question, but necessary.

“The evening before … she died. I went to bed as usual and when I woke up in the morning to get breakfast ready for everyone, Gib … I mean, Mr Gibson was sat at the table crying. He told me what had happened.” You note the use of a nickname, and the pause before she said ‘she died’. Making your quick notes, you try to ignore the presence of Sherlock Holmes sat next to you on the sofa.

“What did he say happened?”

“Exactly? …” You shrug, not needing to get a direct quote “Well, he was really upset. All he kept saying was ‘she’s dead’ over and over again. I knew who he meant. It was heart breaking to watch.”  

“We have to ask, but what exactly was your relationship with Mrs Gibson.”

“Civil” She says quickly, and you quirk a brow.

“Civil?”

“Yes. I don’t think she liked me, but we both agreed to be friendly, especially around the kids.” She adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Why wouldn’t she like you?”

“Who knows, but she was a very mature woman. Never let it really show …”

“Then how do you know she didn’t like you?”

“I overheard her on the phone a few times, talking to her friends. She called me some … colourful names.” Grace looks genuinely upset by this, and you don’t bother to ask her more details, you could guess the actual names.

“And Mr Gibson?”

“What about him?” Grace frowns slightly at your question. Bingo, now you were on to something.

“What was your relationship with him?”

“Oh! Sorry, I guess I got distracted.” You make a quick note, before looking back at the young woman with what you hope is a blank expression. “We were friends, good friends. He was a lovely man …” You note the use of ‘was’ and not ‘is’ and quickly jot that down, trying not to be too obvious about it.

You can feel more than see Sherlock look over your shoulder at your notes, but try to ignore him.

“Was there ever any issues when you were working here? Any bad days?”

“No. I love my job, I can’t imagine doing anything else. Sure the pay is good, but it’s more than that” Grace says with a sweet smile, looking over to a picture of two children on the coffee table.

“Is that them?” You ask, knowing the answer already.

“Yes” She says with a sigh “It’s so awful, to lose your mother at such a young age …”

You stiffen at the comment, before clearing your throat and trying to regain your composure before Sherlock could notice anything off.

“We’d like to take a look around your rooms if that’s ok. Nothing to worry about, just routine” Sherlock says after being mostly silent, He places the warrant from Lestrade down on the table for Grace to see.

“Of course” Grace says with a genuine smile, not even really reading the sheet of paper Sherlock had given her. “It’s the room downstairs, you’ll need this” She says, pulling out a small key from her jean pocket and handing it to Sherlock.

You mutter a thanks when Sherlock doesn’t and follow him from the room.

“Well?” You ask the detective, as you walk through a door to the downstairs quarters of the huge London town house.

“Well what?” He asks distracted, looking down at the key in his hand.

“What do you think about Grace?”

“Do you mean do I think she is capable of murder?” You roll your eyes at the man’s crassness, but by now you wonder if you had even expected another answer.

“Yes.”

“No” The man says as he opens the door that is undoubtedly Grace’s private bedroom.

The room you enter is stunning. Pale creams and vintage furniture give the impression that you have travelled in time. It certainly is luxurious, and you have to concentrate before you fling yourself on the bed and cocoon yourself in the fur covers.

“Ok, where do we start?”

Sherlock just waves his hand, signalling one side of the room as he moves to begin exploring the other. He pulls out his favoured magnifying glass, beginning to look closely at the shelves that line the right side of the room.

After around an hour of searching, both of you had admittedly come up with nothing. The woman kept a meticulously clean room, and obviously had a passion for literature.

“Anything?” Lestrade says with a yawn, leaning on the open doorway. You assume he has now finished his sweep of the upstairs rooms.

“No” Sherlock says quickly, annoyance apparent in his expression.

“Us neither, absolutely nothing” Greg says, before covering his mouth again after another yawn.

“Tired Greg?” You ask Lestrade, as you sit on the bed looking at a photo album that had been resting on the top of Grace’s bedside table.

“Been on double shifts this week, not getting that much sleep …”

“That must suck.” You say sympathetically, still flicking through the pages of photographs.

“Should be used to it by now I suppose, comes with the job,” Lestrade stops after seeing you yawn, and chuckles once “Speak for yourself.”

“Sorry” You murmur, moving to stand and put the album back where you found it.

“Well we’re heading back to the Station, going to have a look at the post mortem again, see if we missed anything.

You look over to Sherlock after he gives no response, and notice the man is completely frozen.

“Sherlock?”

Its then you notice what has captured Sherlock’s interest so intently. He turns slowly, holding something in his outstretched hand. Seeing it, you and Lestrade both stiffen, your mouths falling open in a matched look of shock.

“.20 calibre …” Sherlock states quietly, a look of confusion on his face.

“Is that …?” Lestrade asks from his spot in the doorway, appearing flustered. None of you had been expecting to find anything, let alone …  

“The murder weapon.” Sherlock answers, pulling out a plastic bag from his coat pocket and carefully placing the gun inside.

“And in Grace’s private room. She has the only key …” You murmur, trying to find a reasonable explanation that doesn’t have the woman you had all but befriended appear guilty of murder.

Everyone is silent for a few seconds, watching as Sherlock carefully takes care of the gun.

“But you said, you said  ... There was no motive! That it couldn’t have been Grace!”

Sherlock remains deadly silent; looking at the gun in his hand like it had personally done him wrong. You understood the man’s confusion. You had both all but agreed that Grace did not murder Mrs Gibson, but his … was irrefutable evidence.

“I’ll call it in” Lestrade says, holding out his hand for the gun. Sherlock doesn’t hand it over immediately, instead still staring at it intensively.

After gathering the weapon and sending you both a quick nod of thanks, Lestrade leaves the room quickly, radioing Sally as he does.

“Should we keep looking?” You ask the detective, who begins to pull off his gloves and place them in his pocket.

“No need. We’re done here.” Sherlock says coldly, sweeping from the room and leaving you standing with a perplexed expression on your face.

 

 

“Sherlock?” You are greeted with complete silence. The detective continues starting at the ceiling, his piercing blue eyes red and unblinking. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. Do you want me to get you anything?”

“It doesn’t fit.” Sherlock snaps quietly, and you know the harshness was not directed at you, but rather the annoyance of the case.  

“Do you want me to call John?” You suggest, sure that he would know how to handle the dramatic detective right now.

“Why would a woman in good employment, who admittedly had a ‘civil’ relationship with her employee …”Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes grow wider and he stands in a fluid motion, startling you and you lean back in your chair as he moves.

“What is it?” You ask curiously, watching as Sherlock stretches his long pale hand in your direction.

“Your notes” He says quickly, thankfully you note, sounding much more like himself. You reach into your jacket pocket in the chair behind you, and pull out the notebook John had given you. You pause for a moment, wondering if he planned on ripping something out of it. Sherlock, noting your inner questioning rolls his eyes.

“I just need to read it.” You believe him, and hand it over quickly, ignoring his smug smile as he sees the small note John had left you on the first page. As he opens it to your entry you had written about Grace, he wrinkles his noise in apparent disgust. “Your handwriting is appalling.”

“I was in a rush. Besides, no one has neat handwriting when they take notes.”

“John does …”

“Of course he does.” You grumble, slinking further back into your chair and crossing your arms childishly. After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock thrusts the book back into your hands and sits back down in his chair.

“Read it.” He says quickly, closing his eyes as he speaks.

“What?”

“Read it out loud, it’ll help me to think. Plus I cannot read that scrawl you call English.” You fight the urge to stick your tongue out, instead choosing to try and be mature. If John could put up with this man, so can you.

You clear your throat, before beginning to read from your short list of notes. “Ok … ‘Grace Dunbar, attractive young woman, clearly well educated …”

“Assumption.” Sherlock interjects, his eyes still closed.

“No, deduction.” You argue, noting amused how you could almost see Sherlock roll his eyes behind his eyelids. “It was the way she spoke … ‘whilst’ and introducing herself as ‘Miss’ but then letting me call her Grace …”

“Keep reading.” Sherlock interrupts, and you take the man not disagreeing with you to be a victory.

“Nervous, shifting uncomfortably, odd relationship with employer …” You stop reading then suddenly, remembering what you had written next. You wondered if Sherlock would think you had been an idiot for writing that …

“What?” The detective says, cracking one eye open to look at you curiously.

“I … may have made an assumption.” You reply, hoping Sherlock would be annoyed and ask you to stop reading.

“Out with it.” He says in his low timbre voice, leaning back and closing his eyes again.

“Having an affair with Mr Gibson.” You read quickly, and Sherlock’s eyes shoot open. “It was the nickname, she was going to say Gib or maybe even Gibson. She always called Mrs Gibson just that, but he had a nickname. Plus she seemed nervous when I asked about him …” You ramble, not wanting to sound like an idiot.

“How did I miss that?” The man says, surprisingly you note, sounding shocked.

“Don’t feel bad, emotions were never your forte.” You say deadpan, before breaking out into a smile when Sherlock scowls at you.

“So Miss Grace Dunbar was having an affair with her employer …” He murmurs, returning to his position.

“It fits Sherlock.” You reason, closing your notebook and putting it back into your pocket. “Mrs Gibson didn’t like her, and that would be an explanation. Plus …”

“Mr Gibson approached me about clearing her name. Clearly he cares for her.” Sherlock interrupts, finally understanding your reasoning.

“Clearly.” You agree, smiling at the detective fondly.

Sherlock scoffs however, and sits up quickly, appearing frustrated. He runs his hands through his hair, sending his ebony curls in all difference directions. A nervous habit you note. “But it’s not right … I’m missing something.”

“Woo hoo.” Mrs Hudson’s voice startles you, and you turn to smile at the woman.

“Evening Mrs Hudson.” You say, watching as the woman places down a bag of shopping on the kitchen table.

“Oh you’re still here dear? I thought you would have been in bed by now, what with them arresting that Nanny woman.” Mrs Hudson says, beginning to pack away various pieces of shopping into cupboards. She’s braver than me, you think, you wouldn’t dare venture into some of those cupboards.

“She’s innocent.” Sherlock declares suddenly, surprising you and his landlady,

“What?” Mrs Hudson asks, leaning around the door way.

“Sherlock.” You sigh, watching as the detective stands quickly and walks over to his coat.

“She cares about those children more than anything. She would not risk being taken from them for the sake of getting rid of the wife.” He grumbles as he puts on his long black coat in a flourish.

“But, it is a motive …” You say, trying to sound reasonable.

“A motive that doesn’t fit with anything. If you’re going to do this, do it right.” Sherlock snaps, shocking you into silence.

“You heading out then dear?” Mrs Hudson asks cheerily, having not heard Sherlock’s last comment.

“We both are, grab your jacket.” The detective says from the doorway, surprising you. You stand quickly, pulling on your coat as you march from the flat.

“Where we going?”

“To see Molly … and Mrs Gibson.”

 

 “Hello Molly” You say on entering the morgue. Sherlock walks in behind you, a determined look on his face.

“Oh, thank God you’re alright!” Molly exclaims, getting up from her chair and giving you a quick hug. Like John, Molly never paused to hug or touch you, despite not knowing where you’d been …

“Was everyone looking for me? I was only gone three days!”

“Three days and ten hours …”Sherlock mumbles and you turn to look at the man with a perplexed look on your face.

“That was pretty precise …” You mumble quietly, noting Molly’s amused expression.

“Where is she?” Sherlock asks, pulling of his coat and gloves and placing them on a blank desk near the doorway.

“Table two, sign this …” She thrusts a piece of paper in Sherlock’s hand, and hands him a pen. The detective signs and puts the sheet back in Molly’s hand without stopping. You laugh quietly at the man’s antics, before turning back to Molly. You hadn’t seen her in a while, and were very fond of the woman.

“So, how are you?”

“I’m good thanks. Busy?” You ask, watching as the woman sits at her desk at the side of the room, a mountain of files and loose paper surrounding her.

“Very. It’s a shame I couldn’t spend more time on this, but I’ve got other things to worry about.”

“Well it seems to be pretty wrapped up …” You say, trying not to yawn out loud.

“That’s what I thought. He won’t find anything odd.”

“This the report?” You ask, pulling a document lying on the desk towards yourself so you can give it a quick read. Mostly to occupy yourself, you knew Sherlock could be working for a while now.

“Yep. One gunshot wound to the left side of the head, slight damage on knees and right arm and elbow when she hit the floor. It all looks …”

“Ah!” Sherlock shouts suddenly, causing you and Molly to jump.

“Sherlock?”

“Jesus don’t do that … Especially not in a bloody morgue!” You growl, clutching your hand over your pounding heart.

“Gunpowder residue.” Sherlock murmurs, mostly to himself.

“What?” Molly asks politely, but she is completely ignored by the detective. As per usual you note.

You turn to face Sherlock, noting the gleeful expression on his face. “That’s impossible, that gun would have to be old. Like a pistol or something The one we found …”

“Was suitable to shoot .20 calibre rounds, but so could another gun. One that would leave residue after being fired.”

“Wait a minute what are you saying?” You ask the detective, trying to keep up with the man’s one hundred mile an hour brain.

“Someone planted that gun in Grace’s wardrobe, she’s innocent.”

“How is that possible? And if that’s true then who killed Grace?” Molly stutters, before looking at you for answers. You just shrug, before watching Sherlock with a frown on your face.

“No one.” Sherlock says, putting on his gloves and leaving the room with a smile on his face. “She killed herself. Night Molly”

 

“So Mrs Gibson shot herself, then had the gun planted in Grace’s room to frame her …” You explain to John, after hearing Sherlock’s explanation of what he had believed happened. Sherlock had remained silent throughout your speech, instead he was moving around the room in fast fluid motions, making a huge mess as he went.

“It doesn’t seem right Sherlock.”

“Whenever you ever eliminate the impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable is the truth.” Sherlock grumbles, after what must have been an hour of silence.

“Ok, take us through it …” John says, as you watch Sherlock as he paces back and for. You have to look away after a while, the movements making you dizzy.

“Mrs Gibson knew that no matter what she did, her children would still care for Grace more than her, as did her husband. She needed to find a way to ruin her, to completely destroy her so that her family had no option but to shun her. To hate her”

“But kill herself?” John asks from his position by the fire.

Sherlock had requested you text John and ask him to meet you both before you had even fully left Barts. He had remained deadly silent throughout the journey home in the taxi, obviously thinking about the case, and you let him.

“It was drastic” Sherlock concedes, nodding his head at his old roommate “But Mrs Gibson had a known record of mental disorders. For someone like her it wouldn’t have been too hard …”

“But why did the police not see this? Why look at Grace and the husband?”

“Because it’s so ridiculous …” You say from your position on the floor. You preferred sitting on the hard wooden floor, with your back up against John’s legs and being in full view of the fire. You didn’t even think about sitting in Sherlock’s chair. With his distracted behaviour, it wouldn’t have surprised you if he had sat on you. “I agree with Sherlock” You continued “She was clearly struggling with some sort of mental disorder, to reason that killing herself would be the only solution.”

“She knew she could frame Grace, she would have a great motive. The nanny having an affair with the rich employer. She loves those kids, almost as if they were her own …”

“So she killed herself, and planned to set up Grace, making her husband think she was a murderer and her children hate her …” John reasons slowly from above you, trying to link all the evidence as Sherlock had taught you both.

“Exactly.”  Sherlock replies, his back now facing you and looking at his impressive collection of documents of the wall above the sofa.

“Then what’s the problem?” John says to the detectives back.

“The gun.” You say quickly, picking up the picture of the gun Sherlock had found in Grace’s wardrobe.

“What?”

“The gun we found in Graces wardrobe was admittedly her own. No one else had a way to get into that room apart from her, hence why she would be an obvious suspect with an illegal obtained weapon.” Sherlock murmurs, all the while typing a message on his phone.

“It wasn’t licenced, so the police can hold her.” John reasons again, nodding in understanding.

“And get a confession out of her …”

“But you said, you said it was the murder weapon.” John says, getting even more confused.

“Mrs Gibson purposely used a .20 calibre gun so that the bullets would match something that Graces’ gun could fire …”

“So?” John asks from his seat by the fire, watching as Sherlock manically paces up and down the living room.

“So how did Mrs Gibson know that she had that gun? And where is the weapon she used to kill herself?” You supply to John, showing the questions that currently had Sherlock marching around the flat trying to figure out.

“So where do you think the gun is? Somewhere in the house?”

Sherlock shakes his head, looking exhausted and not in the mood to be explaining anything further. But he does, because it’s John. “No, Lestrade would have found it. Plus someone would have had to move it from the murder scene. It’s most likely in the Thames …”

“Great.” You moan, rubbing your eyes to try and force yourself awake.

“By why couldn’t someone have moved it? She could have had an accomplice.”

“She didn’t” You say suddenly into the quiet room, surprising even yourself “She killed herself John, she obviously didn’t have anyone who cared enough to stop her, let alone someone she would have trusted enough to do that …”

“Good point.” Sherlock says quietly, looking at you closely and carefully. You try not to shift under his penetrating gaze.

“So, we need to find the gun? That’s going to be hard …”

“We have to prove that Mrs Gibson shot herself, attempted to frame Grace … all without the evidence of the murder weapon and a terrified Nanny who has already all but confessed to the crime.” Sherlock says quickly, before holding his hands under his chin in his now famous pose.

“Oh” John says, sounding extremely dejected.

“Well boys, let’s get to work” You say, trying to lighten the mood in the room.

John mumbles something about getting tea, and you let him go into the kitchen, instead you begin to lay out all of the documents on the floor around you. Sherlock looks at you closely, before turning back to the wall. You do not comment on the fact that he was about to ask you something, instead choosing to remain quiet, listening to John as he clatters around in the kitchen to make everyone a hot cup of tea.

 

 

 

“I need to go and check on Mary.”

“Of course.” Sherlock says, waving his hand in John’s direction, ultimately dismissing him.

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock, before moving over to the doorway and gathering his coat. He turns to you as you watch him leave, a small smile on his face that doesn’t quite hide his concern.

“if you need anything, call me.”

“Of course.” You reply with a smile, before turning back to the wall Sherlock was pacing in front of manically.

Suddenly the man claps his hands together loudly making you jump and almost drop the nearly empty mug you had in your hands.

“I’m going to the Nanny.” Sherlock says simply, talking of his dressing grown to display his shirt and suit trousers he worn underneath.

“What about me?” You ask, sensing immediately that you weren’t invited.

 “Go to the homeless community, ask around.” Sherlock says as he turns to face you, quickly wrapping on his scarf, despite it being somewhat warm outside.

The detective moves to the door in superhuman speed, and before you know it, the man is already making his way down the wooden steps out of the flat.

“Ask around for what?” You shout back, moving to the doorway quickly to watch as Sherlock quickly descending down the stairs.

“A gun!” Sherlock yells, just before the door to the flat shuts with a thundering slam.

 

You notice the man just where the police report mentioned he made his official statement. You thought it would be a good idea to start with the man who found the body, who you noticed with some surprise, was an elderly homeless man.

“Hi.” You say simply, and the man turns and gives you a beaming smile.

“Evening sweetheart. Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” You say, walking towards him slowly, rubbing your arms to try and warm yourself up. You wondered if Sherlock knew it was going to become so cold. “I’m just wondering if I could ask you about that body you found.”

The man frowns then, “Not one of those weirdoes who gets off on that kind of thing are you?”

“What?” You scoff “No, I’m working with Sherlock Holmes.”

The man smiles then, before clapping his hands together. “Nice! One of The Network then huh?”

“Yep.” You reply with an equally wide smile.

“Ok, asks away chicken …”

You do not comment on the strange pet name, just instead try and channel Lestrade and Sherlock’s investigation stance.

“You were the one to find the body?” The man raises both eyebrows then, and smiles. “Weren’t you?” You continue, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh I was the one there when the police turned up; I wasn’t the first one there.”

“Then who …”

“A woman we call Dotty. She’s …” The man spins a finger around his temple and whistles.

“What happened?” You sigh, interested to know how Sherlock and Lestrade will react when they find out that they had the wrong information to begin with.  

“Well I heard the shot, walked up the bridge, and Dotty was walking away, muttering to herself. She said she already called the police. Apparently the woman paid her to do it.”

“Paid her to do what?”

“Call the police.” The man says simply, putting his hands in his pockets. You rub your temples to try and ease away some pain,  the case beginning to give you a migraine of epic proportions.

“Where can I find her?” You ask as the man begins to walk away from you casually.

“Docklands!” The man yells over his shoulder, and starts whistling.

The walk to the Docklands takes you over an hour, and in that moment you immensely envy John and Sherlock who use Taxis to get everywhere. The Docklands was always full with homeless people; you yourself stayed there often. It was dry and sheltered. You usually couldn’t ask for more. You ask around about Dotty, and most people smile at the mention of her name and tell you to watch out for an elderly woman with a huge amount of bin bags. You smirk and comment, but true to their word, you find the woman sat surrounded by at least twenty huge overflowing bin bags.

“Hey.” You say as you sit next to her, and the woman silently offers you some bread she had been eating. “No thanks” You reply, and the woman smiles.

“That woman you saw on the bridge, how much did she pay you?”

“£200.”

You whistle, and the older woman laughs, a huge smile lighting up her face. “That’s a lot of money just to call the police.”

“It wasn’t just that …” The woman responds automatically, before realising her mistake. You try not to outwardly smile, but feel like doing a victory punch in the air.

“Can I see it?” You ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, and not like you’re asking a mad woman to see a murder weapon.

“NO!” The woman yells, and you raises your hands in surrender.

“Ok, jeez …” You breath out, trying to figure out another way to get the woman to hand over the gun. Usually, you would use money, but the woman just admitted she had £200 cash, and that was more than you usually saw in months. “Look, the truth is … that’s a bad gun.” You try lamely, although feel relieved when you see the old woman’s eyes widen.

“Bad?” She asks, turning to you with a worried expression.

“Yeah. It killed someone.” You reply simply, trying to get the woman to understand.

You watch perplexed as the woman stands quickly, much too quickly for a woman her age, and begins to rummage through her bags. Suddenly she stops, and turns slowly. You really can’t help the smile that breaks out onto your face when you notice what she was holding.

“Take it.” She says slowly, carefully placing the weapon into your hands.

“You sure?” You don’t really know why you ask the question, knowing that you’re going to take it either way. The elderly woman just nods frantically; gazing at the antique gun in your hands like it is a poisonous snake.

“I tried to stop her.” The woman begins, and you turn to look at her. “She was stood on the bridge, holding the gun …” The woman pauses then, before holding her hands up to the side of her head in the shape of a pistol. “I told her not to, but she said it would be ok. She said ‘here!’” The woman then mimics someone throwing her a wad of money, and you stand back frightened by her manic actions. “ … and gave me the cash. She told me to call the police, then take the gun. She said it was a present.”

“Thank you.” Is all you say in return, before walking away slowly.

You worried about the woman for a little while, before realising you had far bigger problems. Like how you were going to be able to walk through London as a homeless youth with a loaded murder weapon in your pocket. You pull out your phone to call John or Sherlock, but notice with some surprise that it wasn’t charged.

“Oh man, John’s going to kill me …”

 

Once back at 221B, you suddenly feel slightly awkward. The case was over, and you wondered if that was your cue to leave. However, you remember how adamant John had been about you staying for a while, and having a hot shower. Instead, you just place down you rucksack near the door, and stand awkwardly, watching as Sherlock strides over to his usual spot and all but falls into his chair.

“Tea?” John asks as he hangs up his coat on the pegs near the door, before moving over to the kitchen.

“Sure, thank you.” You respond, watching as John begins to open cupboards with a wary expression and gather supplies.

“Anything in here that’ll kill me Sherlock?” John asks the detective, who had somehow managed to change into his dressing gown in record time and was currently poking at the fire.

“Only if you ingest it.” The man replies, and you and John both look at him with equally worried looks before he smiles. “ Avoid the back cupboard …” Sherlock adds, resting down his fire poker and sitting in his chair.

“Always do.” John answers, and you walk away from the doorway to take your usual place sat on the floor by the Doctor’s chair.

“Did.” Sherlock mutters so quietly that you couldn’t even be sure that’s what he had said.

John had left his laptop on his chair, and you pull it towards you, knowing that the man never seemed to mind if you borrowed it. As you open it, a website springs to life automatically, and you smile as you read the title. You spend a few moments flicking through Sherlock’s website, before stopping to read some of the many comments left by eager enthusiasts, and even fans.

“Sherlock?” The detective remains silent, although part of you hadn’t really expected to get a response. “Who is theimprobleone?”

“Been on Sherlock’s website?” John asks from behind you, bringing you cup of tea and placing on the floor beside you.

“Yeah, but this guy …” You frown at John’s laptop that rested on your crossed legs. The comments were regular, obsessive … and somewhat unnerving.

“Girl.” Sherlock says suddenly in his monotone voice. John ignores him completely, moving to sit in his chair and just watches you both closely.

“Assumption?” You tease, picking up your black tea from the floor. You smile at the fact that the famous John Watson was making you tea, and that you were managing to tease the even more famous Sherlock Holmes.

“Deduction.” Sherlock snaps back, raising his head from where it rested on the back of his leather chair to glare at you.

“Ok, how do you know  _she’s_ a woman.” You refute, emphasising the word she and making John have to hide his smile behind his mug.

“End’s each comment with two kisses …”

“No, that’s the Anonymous commenter.” You interrupt, scrolling down to see the even stranger comments from someone who didn’t even have a name on the detectives website. “I meant …”

“Same person.” Sherlock interrupts, managing to look smug as he closed his eyes once more and went back to his usual position on his small box chair.

“Fine, just as long as you’re aware that you have a stalker.” You reply, closing the laptop and shifting closer to the fire. You couldn’t help but smile slightly at the fact you reminded yourself of a house cat.

“What?” John asks with a smile, noting your expression.

“Nothing.” You respond, looking into the roaring fire and nursing your tea. “Just amusing myself.”

A knock on the door grabs yours and John’s attention, and you turn to see Mrs Hudson stood at the entrance to the flat, a nervous look on her face that makes you frown.

“Hello dear.” She addresses you, walking further into the living room, and as she walks closer you can see that she is holding something in her arms. “Now, please don’t think me … awfully rude or anything …”

“Never.” You state with a smile, and you hear John chuckle slightly behind you.

“I’ve had these lying around for ages, there my nieces …” Mrs Hudson says, placing a pile of freshly washed clothes on the table in the centre of the flat. “I was going to donate them but I’ve never got round to it.”

Despite the fact that Mrs Hudson doesn’t explicitly say it, you know what she is doing, and rise clumsily from the floor to walk towards her and give her a quick hug.

“Thank you.” You say earnestly. “I’d been meaning to go shopping …”

John breaks out into laughter behind you, and Mrs Hudson smiles, no doubt pleased that you weren’t offended by her offering.

“John dear, can I borrow you for a minute downstairs.”

“Yeah sure.” The man places his now empty cup on the mantel piece, and rises to walk over to Mrs Hudson, and follow her out the flat. You take a seat in John’s chair, listening as Mrs Hudson began talking about leaking and new pipes.

“I sincerely hope she is talking about plumbing.” You mutter under your breath, before turning to look at Sherlock.

To your surprise, his eyes are wide open, and looking at you with a small frown.

“Stop it.” You say, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow in a silent question. You sigh, shifting in John’s chair awkwardly. “I know that face. That’s your deduction face.”

Sherlock cocks his head as he gazes at you, his frown becoming even deeper. “You do that a lot.”

“What?” You ask, matching his frown.

“Use humour as a defence mechanism.”

“Maybe.” You concede with a small smile. “Or maybe I’m just hilarious.”

“Definitely a defence mechanism.” Sherlock replies quickly, and you look at him questioningly for a few seconds, before the detective breaks out into a smile.

“Sherlock Holmes did you just make a joke?”

“It’s been known to happen.” The man replies, shifting around in his chair, almost you think, as if in a nervous gesture.

“Huh.” You both sit in silence for a few seconds, just watching each other. You can hear John and Mrs Hudson move things around downstairs and chatter to each other.

“You can stay.” Sherlock says suddenly, and you frown, not understanding … “I need an assistant, and you need a place to sleep that doesn’t have rats …”

“There’s no rats.” You defend, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Not anymore.” You mutter, but then smile. “You sure?”

The detective just nods, and you both sit in silence then, basking in the warm heat of the fire and listening to the clatter from downstairs.

“Thank you.” You murmur quietly, drifting off as you sit in John’s comfortable chair by the roaring fire. Sherlock doesn’t respond, but you swear you see him smile as your eyes drift shut and you fall into a deep and much needed sleep


	2. The Red Headed Agency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Arthur Conan Doyle - The Red Headed League
> 
> A young and aspiring model comes to Baker Street for assistance after the modelling agency she signed up with in central London completely disappears overnight.
> 
> Meanwhile you are trying to get used to living with the famous Detective at 221B Baker Street, and it is nowhere as easy as you would have thought it would be.

You sat at the kitchen table eating soup slowly out of a tin can. It was a strange thing to do, considering you now officially had a kitchen that you could use whenever you liked, but it was more out of fear than habit.

Your new ‘roommate’ Sherlock Holmes had a fondness for experimenting with food and using certain utensils for these experiments. One thing he did not have a fondness for however, was washing up. It was after you had made yourself a seemingly harmless ham sandwich one evening that Sherlock had casually mentioned that he had used the knife you had used for dissection, and had been planning to grow cultures on the plate. After that little fiasco, and having spent the entire weekend bent over a toilet, you vowed better to be safe than sorry. Sherlock happened to see the positives in your current predicament however, and was watching you closely for any symptoms.

“Would you cut it out!” You snap, after not being able to take another minute of the detectives prying eyes on you as you tried to eat your soup in peace.

“What?” The detective asks coolly, crossing his arms and leaning back in the kitchen stool he was currently sat in.

You stand from the table, carefully managing to restrain yourself from pouring your remaining lunch all over the man as you walked over to the bin.

“You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of lab experiment.”

“No, you’re not the experiment … you just happened to eat it.”

To turn to glare at the man, trying desperately to keep a straight face when notice that he is smirking at you. He was enjoying this …

“How hard is it to label things Sherlock? Or even better, why don’t you keep all the things you use for experiments in a different cupboard?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it quickly. You smile triumphantly, assuming you had won that particular discussion.

“I’ll talk to Mrs Hudson about it when she gets back from Bridge …” Sherlock murmurs, before leaning back over his microscope on the kitchen table and peering into it with a determined look on his face.

“Why? I can do it …” Sherlock gazes at you, about to speak when you raise a hand, affectively cutting him off “… just tell me what’s what first. I don’t want anything to jump out at me.”

Your conversation is cut short when a quite rapping comes from the door downstairs. John never knocks when he comes to visit, and Mrs Hudson has a key. Therefore you realise that it must be a …

“Client.” Sherlock says curtly, rising from the table and buttoning his jacket. With a wave of his hand he signals that you should go downstairs, and you move quickly, not wanting to keep whoever it was waiting outside in the winter cold.

In the four days you had spent at Baker Street, one of them had been helping Sherlock solve a case, and the others had you in bed or in the bathroom violently ridding yourself of whatever Sherlock had been growing in the kitchen. This was the first time a client had come to visit whilst you had been here, and you couldn’t help the slight flutter of nerves that rose from your stomach. Opening the door however, you stomach flutters for another reason.

A beautiful red headed woman stood before you, huddling herself in her huge coat from the cold. Without a word you move to the side of the door, ultimately inviting her in. She mutters a thank you, and quickly moves to the stairs, making your have to almost run to keep up with her.

When you enter the living room Sherlock is in his usual spot and doesn’t rise when the woman approaches.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective says as a greeting, and signals to John’s vacant chair, inviting the young woman to take a seat.

“Thank you Mr Holmes” The woman replies, beginning to shed her huge coat.

“Can I take that?” You offer shyly, holding out your arms. The woman doesn’t even turn to look at you before she almost throws the coat into your awaiting hands, before smoothly sitting down.

You turn to place the coat on the hooks, taking a few seconds before you do to marvel at how warm and luxurious it felt. Designer you decide, and begin to wonder what this woman could want from Sherlock Holmes.

“My name is Jessica Wilson, Mr Holmes, I’m a model here in London.” The woman begins as you turn to sit on the sofa across from Sherlock and his new client. “I need your help …”

“I assumed as much Miss Wilson” Sherlock replies curtly, and you wonder what it was about Jessica that made him reply so … rudely.

“I was signed to an agency three weeks ago Mr Holmes. One that had an office building not ten minutes from here …” As the woman spoke, you quietly retrieved the notebook John had given you from your pocket, and began to take notes. “I went there today and, it’s gone!”

At that, you raise your head from your note taking, watching as Sherlock leant forward and clasped his hands under his chin.

“Gone?”

“Yes Mr Holmes, I thought …”

“Tell us more about this agency Miss Wilson.” Sherlock says, interrupting the woman. She looks mildly annoyed for a few seconds, but then quickly regains her composure.

“Well …” The woman begins, and you can tell this is going to be a long story. “I moved to London from China about a month ago. I had always wanted to be a model, and while I was here my assistant found a vacancy for me.”

“Your assistant?” Sherlock asks, and you find yourself watching the detective more than the client. He never usually asked this many questions, so you assumed that that small detail was important.

“Yes, a lovely young man. Anyway, he discovered this new agency that only hires red headed models …”

“What?” You exclaim, before clapping a hand over your mouth. The client was glaring at you, and you stammered an apology. “I’m sorry, that just sounds …”

“I know how it sounds.” The young woman all but growls in response. “But it was perfect for me Mr Holmes.” Jessica continues, turning to gaze at the detective. You tried to ignore the fact that Sherlock was looking at you instead. “Brilliant pay and I had my own office.”

“How did you get this job Miss Wilson?”

“I went to the address my assistant had given me. I walked in, had a meeting with a lovely young man. I left him my details and the next day he called me, inviting me to come the next day to begin the job.”

“Which entailed …” Sherlock prompts and you can’t tell from the tone of his voice whether he sounded bored or amused.

“I would take pictures. A photographer would be in my office for 9am sharp. I would take pictures with him until midday, and then have an hour for lunch. I would then go back to my office and continuing working with the photographer, looking and editing the photographs and such, until 6pm, when I would head home.”

Sherlock nods to himself, taking in the information and no doubt storing it. You write down everything that Jessica said, paying particular attention to the times.

“It was gone Mr Holmes. I walked to work as usual this morning, but there was no one there. My office was completely empty, the reception desk was gone and no one in the neighbouring buildings had any idea what I was talking about when I asked where the agency had gone.” You watch as Miss Wilson sniffles then, before reaching into her leather handbag that was resting at her feet. She pulls out a handkerchief, and you can’t help but gaze at it.

“Do you have anything belonging to this office Miss Wilson? A business card? Any paperwork?” Sherlock asks, apparently remaining completely unaffected by the fact that his client was now openly crying in front of him.

“No.” Jessica whispers, before looking up at the detective with sad eyes. “I signed all the paperwork they gave me, and then they said they needed it to be sorted so sent it away. They never had any business cards …” Miss Wilson stops then, crying even harder into her handkerchief and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

You scowl at him, concerned that his client was going to see him, but he doesn’t look in your direction. Suddenly, you watch as Sherlock’s entire manner changes. He sits forward in his chair, his eyes becoming soft and concerned. Leaning forward he gently places a reassuring hand on the clients that rested on her knee.

“We will find them Miss Wilson.” Sherlock says sincerely, and at this point you notice that your mouth had fallen open in shock.

Miss Jessica Wilson smiles then, wiping away her tears before pulling out a business card from her purse and handing it to Sherlock.

“If you hear anything, do not hesitate to contact me.”

Sherlock nods, before standing with his client and beginning to walk the woman to the door of the flat. You shoot up off the sofa, fully intending on collecting the woman’s coat, but Sherlock beats you to it. He holds it out for Jessica to put on, and with a parting thank you and a smile, the client leaves the room, and Sherlock shuts the door behind her.

“Don’t do that.” Sherlock says suddenly, scowling at you before reaching and collecting his own coat.

“Do what?” You ask, worried for a second that he was referring to your earlier outburst.

“You’re not the maid, don’t act like it.” The detective growls and you blink in shock. Sherlock rolls his eyes at you then, before reaching for your own battered and stained coat.

“Sorry.” You murmur, taking your coat from Sherlock and following him from the room. “Where are we going?” You ask once you are out of the building and out onto the cold streets of London.

“To the office building Miss Wilson worked at. We needed to find this ‘Red Headed Agency.”

 

The office building wasn’t huge, but more or less appeared to be quite small considering all of the huge skyscrapers you had seen during your travels around London. The street was full of old houses that had since become businesses, and as you and Sherlock walk towards the office building, you take a moment to read all the signs as you pass them. A private dentist, a lawyer, a therapist …

“An odd place for a modelling agency.” You muse as you walk, wondering why of all places in London a agency would choose here to be its base. Hearing your voice, Sherlock turns to look at you questioningly, slowing down from his usual pace for a few moments.

“What do you think happened?” You ask the detective, returning your gaze back to the man as he walked alongside you.

“Most likely a false company.” Sherlock supplies, although he doesn’t sound as convinced as he usually does. “The question isn’t what, but why?”

The building is completely deserted, just as Jessica had said. The even stranger thing however, is the fact that it is unlocked. You and Sherlock share an uneasy glance as you walk in, the detective going in ahead of you.

Sherlock takes off his leather gloves and puts them inside his coat, whilst you reach into your pocket and pull out your trusty notebook. Seeing Sherlock roll your eyes, you glare at him.

“One day, you’ll thank me for always carrying this with me.” You say, watching as Sherlock climbs over what once appeared to be a reception desk.

Suddenly, a rustling comes from the corner of the room you had been investigating. Sherlock raises his head from where he had been lurking behind the desk, just as the sounds from directly behind you get louder. You turn quickly, preparing yourself to run or dive over the desk. As you back up you notice the sound is coming from behind a doorway.

Abruptly, the door flies open, and to your shock Sherlock pulls out a gun and points it at the open space, where to both of your surprise, absolutely nothing stands. You both stop, frozen for the moment before you notice a small moving figure run to the corner of the room.

“Rats … I hate rats.” The detective hisses, placing his gun back when he had stashed it and carrying on his exploration of the room like nothing had happened.

“What the hell?!” You hiss, surprising yourself with how angry you sound.

“What?” Sherlock asks casually, turning to walk towards another area of the room he had not yet searched.

“You brought a gun?! Why did you bring a gun?!” You continue, trying to keep your voice down and calm your rapidly beating heart.

“I always bring a gun …” Sherlock mutters, before suddenly getting angry and walking out of the room with a growl.

“Noting?” You ask, and the detective shakes his head.

Walking out of the office building, Sherlock takes his leather gloves out of his pockets and begins to slowly put them back on. You take the time to put away your treasured notebook, after noticing that it was beginning to snow slightly, and not wanting it to get wet.

“She left the office every day to collect lunch ...” Sherlock mutters under his breath, craning his neck to look up and down the street you currently stood on as well as across the road. Mirroring his action, you see three places Miss Wilson could have ventured too. A McDonald’s restaurant sits directly across from you, appearing somewhat ostentatious with its brightness in such a muted and sophisticated area. There is also a pizza restaurant and further down the road, the furthest from the building, sat an adorable looking café.

“Well if you were an aspiring model, or a young woman where would you go?” The detective asks you, but you can tell it is more of a rhetorical question. He already seems to know the answer.

“Well jeez Sherlock, if only I was a young woman …”

Sherlock looks confused for half a second, before rolling his eyes and looking completely exasperated with you.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” He mutters, heading past the fast food restaurant and towards a small, quaint looking café.

“I don’t agree with that. I think puns are pretty awful …” You reply as you walk quickly, trying to keep up with Sherlock and his massive strides. He ignores you, just walks ahead and swings the door to the café open, a small bell chiming from the inside as he does.

When you follow in after the detective, any attempt at continuing to tease the man falls short. The café is stunning, with a few two-seater tables scattered around, each with a flower vase on top. The tea cups looked vintage and stunningly dressed business men and woman sat around sipping hot drinks and eating cakes that made you want to cry …

“Over there.” Sherlock says, pulling you out of your head. You look over to where he is glancing and notice a young teenage boy behind the desk, busily putting delicious looking things into boxes that were much too fancy to hold food in your opinion.

As you follow the detective over to the desk, you notice some people begin to look up from there food and drinks to ogle in your direction. At first you think it must be because of your famous companion, but then you see they are all staring at you. Self-consciously, you play with your battered coat, pulling it around yourself like a security blanket.

“Sherlock Holmes?!” The boy exclaims as you approach, sounding excited and pulling over his plastic gloves to reach out to the detective for a handshake.

“Pleasure.” Sherlock replies coolly, shaking the young man’s hand. You wondered how he could have possibly known the man was a fan of his. Then part of your brain wondered if Sherlock was just assuming.

“Do you happen to remember seeing this young woman?” Sherlock asks, holding out his phone and you wonder how he managed to get a photo of Miss Wilson. You sincerely hoped he didn’t have a habit of randomly taking candid pictures of people.

“Oh yeah, I know her.” The teenager says, looking at the picture Sherlock held in his hand and nodding to himself. “She was a regular; came in here a lot.”

“How often?” Sherlock says, placing his phone back into his coat and looking around the small café.

“Every day, same time as well.”

“Did you see which direction she came and left in?” Sherlock asks before looking back at the boy with a frown etched onto his features.

You begin to zone out of the conversation between the two men, and instead your gaze is locked on one of the displays by the window. The cakes and sweets gleamed in the light, and they looked heavenly. Your mouth filled with saliva, and you quickly tried not to think about food. Before you have a chance to start planning your order however, you notice one of the small decorative signs above the goodies indicating the price. Sighing, you turn back to Sherlock and the young man behind the counter. You would never be able to afford the amount they were asking, especially not just for a cake. You wondered to yourself if the people sat around and ordering there food realised how fortunate they are to be able to order whatever they wanted …

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s voice pulls you back to reality, and you quickly move to follow him from the café.

“So?” You ask as you walk back out into London, wrapping your coat around yourself more to fight away the cold.

“You weren’t paying attention.” The detective retorts, before pulling out his phone and casually sending a text as he walked.

“Sorry, I got distracted.” You murmur with a smile.

“He saw her walk in and out of the office building every day, although he never saw anyone else leave to get food.”

“That’s weird.” You reply, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at you questioningly “I mean, that place was fancy but it didn’t have a canteen. And I don’t people who worked in a place like that would have lunchboxes …”

Sherlock smiles as you cross over a road, beginning to walk back to Baker Street and, you hoped, a hot cup of tea.

“Miss Wilson was the only person that anyone around the office building ever saw leave that building. So that begs the question, why?”  

 

**John Watson POV**

“Hello love!” Mrs Hudson greets me cheerfully at the door, moving to let me inside from the now freezing cold.

“Evening” I reply, before rubbing my snow covered boots on the welcome mat and beginning to walk towards the stairs. “They in?”

“She’s in her bedroom, and Sherlock …” Mrs Hudson smiles fondly, waving her hand to signal that it would be completely pointless to try and speak to him right now. No doubt the detective was busy working on a case, so I walk straight past the living room and up the second set of stairs to reach my old bedroom, which has since become yours.

“Hi John.” You greet me with a smile, putting down a newspaper that you had been folding and placing it extremely carefully on a pile with several others.

“I have some things for you … from Mary.” I clarify, noting your perplexed expression. I place the things on the end of the bed, and you over to me slowly, I note how exhausted you look, though it doesn’t surprise me, as you had spent the day being dragged all over London by Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you.” You respond, genuinely grateful, and I smile fondly at you as you begin to sort through the small pile.

“Some clothes, and some bedding and blankets.”

“These are beautiful.” You say, holding up the patterned blanket and admiring it. It makes me smile even more.

“Apparently they don’t go with the new décor.” I reply, trying and failing to suppress an eye roll.

You giggle in response, before placing the blanket back onto the pile. Suddenly your expression darkens, and I worry that I have offended you.

“Thank you John.” Is all you say, although all the lightness has gone from your voice.

“Everything alright?”

“I went into this really nice café today with Sherlock,” You begin, sitting down on my old bed and fidgeting nervously “Everyone was staring at  me …” You don’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need to.

I walk towards you, before sitting near you on the end of the bed. “You sure they weren’t staring at Sherlock.” I supply, glad that I manage to get a smile from you.

“No.” You sigh, shaking your head.

 I reach a hand out towards you, but to my surprise you stand quickly, wiping away some tears that had begun to fall onto your face. You laugh, but I can see you all still upset.

“Look at me! I can’t believe myself.” You shake your head, before walking over to your pile of newspapers to resume whatever it was you had been doing before I had interrupted you. “I’m lucky, I have a roof over my head, friends, and a have a job to do …” I realise now that you are talking more to yourself than me, so rise from the bed,

“Goodnight.” I reply, before turning and walking from my old room.

“John?” Your voice makes me turn, and I am glad to see a genuine smile on your face, although tears still are welled up in your wide eyes. “Thank you.” You reply, motioning over to the things I had delivered.

I smile, before making my way down the stairs as quietly as possible, trying desperately not to disturb anyone.  

“Still here John?” Sherlock’s voice stops me in my tracks, and I turn and walk towards him from my place on the landing. He stands at his desk in the living room, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Just talking to your ‘new assistant’” I reply, and I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face. “She’s …” I pause then, my expression falling when I remember our conversation.

“Yes?” Sherlock asks, and I am confused for a moment that the man appears to be showing … concern? Or maybe my friend just can’t handle an unfinished sentence.  

Unsure of how to respond, I simply look over to your coat, hanging sadly and limp on the hook next to Sherlock’s. It is torn and well worn, although it never smells or ever gets stained when you eat or drink, and it reminds me how much pride you have. Sherlock follows my gaze, before looking back at his collection of paperwork with a sigh.

“Oh.” The detective says, placing his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight between his feet.

“Why don’t you notice?” I ask my companion, moving further into my old living room.

“Of course I notice John, I just choose not to comment.”

“This isn’t about you Sherlock. She’s …”

“Completely capable.” The detective interrupts me, and I sigh in frustration, moving even further into the room to ensure that you won’t hear our conversation.

“Ashamed. Embarrassed.” I supply, trying to make Sherlock understand. He just turns and faces me, looking confused, which is an expression I don’t often see on the man’s face.

“Of me?”

“Of herself.”

I watch closely as my friend sighs, before turning back to his stack of papers and seemingly beginning to read them once again. I didn’t know much about the case you were currently working on with Sherlock, but apparently it involved a woman of some sort. The picture on the desk Sherlock was currently investigating showed a stunning young woman.

“What did she say to you?” The detective asks quietly, not taking his eyes from the picture as he addressed me.

“She thinks it’s awkward. You take her into these places and people stare at her …”

“That says more about them than it does her John.” Sherlock replies, finally placing down the picture before gathering up the papers into something resembling a pile.

“I know. Just …” I sigh then, not really sure how to continue. I didn’t want the anything to offend you, and I feared that giving you new clothes, sending you shopping or even mentioning getting a new look would do exactly that.

“She gets a fair bit of money.” Sherlock says suddenly, walking over to his chair by the fire and picking up his violin that sat on it.

“Really?” I respond incredulous, watching as my friend began to tune his violin. That was one thing about 221B that I did not miss; impromptu musical recitals at 2 in the morning.

“Must be around £100 a week.”

“From where?” I ask, before looking at my watch. Mary was expecting me back soon, and I notice Sherlock glance in my direction after I lower my arm.

“Payment for her assistance.” Sherlock answers simply.

He holds his violin up to his shoulder, but to my surprise, he doesn’t begin to play. He just paces around the room, appearing to be lost in thought.

“So, where does it go then?” I ask.

I knew that people in the Homeless Network where getting money from Sherlock, and even sometimes police and clients as a thank you for their assistance. Now that Sherlock and I had mentioned it, I realised I had never seen you buy anything with this money. It was all cash, so you must be keeping it somewhere. Or …

“She’s spent it.” Sherlock supplies, although he looks troubled.

“Well …” Before I can respond however, I suddenly realise what my friend is implying. “You don’t think …?”

“No” Sherlock replies quickly, beginning to pluck his violin. “She’s not a junkie John.” Sherlock continues, although he doesn’t sound certain.

We stop then, looking at each other, almost as if we are both daring each other to say something. I clear my throat, desperately not wanting to get involved in  _that_ conversation.

“Well I better be heading back, night.” I say quickly, sending a smile in Sherlock’s direction before turning and heading out into the cold of London.

I hear the violin play as I leave, although it is a tune I don’t recognise. It sounds more modern than my friends usual taste and part of me wonders if it is for your benefit. The thought makes me smile, and I pull my coat tighter around myself, before raising an arm and hailing a taxi to take me home to my very pregnant wife. She’ll love to hear about this …

**Reader POV**

You are woken up the next morning by loud footsteps and banging coming from downstairs. You roll your eyes, pull your covers tighter around yourself and try and ignore the persistent noises rising up into your room. After a few minutes you sigh in frustration and look over at the clock resting against the wall of John Watson’s old room. 7am. Well that wasn’t horrendous, you think as you begin to rub your eyes, trying to fight away sleep. Suddenly, an almighty crash comes from downstairs and you quickly shoot up out of bed in shock. You often anticipated Sherlock screaming your name to wake up in the mornings whilst you were working on a case, but this was far less favourable.

You were both officially in the middle of his latest case, and so you had no idea when or where you would be heading out to or even if you needed to assist the detective. As you haphazardly make your bed, you hear some more loud noises. This time however you cannot place what the sound is, and have absolutely no idea what is going on downstairs. Your own curiosity gets the better of you, and you slowly creep down the wooden stairway to the second floor of 221B, and into the living room.

Sherlock Holmes is stood by the unlit fireplace staring intently at the two chairs belonging to himself and John Watson. To your surprise, and confusion, one is upside down and the other appeared to have been dragged across the floor as the carpet was in complete disarray. 

“Morning” You say quietly as you walk into the room, wishing that you had put on more clothes than your cotton shorts and big baggy man’s t-shirt. The change from sleeping in a real apartment meant that you were warmer than usual however, and so wearing a jacket seemed to be pointless to you.

“We’re taking a visit to Miss Wilson today.” Sherlock says suddenly, marching away from the two abused chairs and towards his desk where he begins to collect some of his notes and evidence.

“Oh.”

Your voice makes Sherlock look up from his work, and eye you curiously. You feel awkward under his gaze, and wonder if your response had sounded as disappointed in real life as it did in your head.

“Oh?” Sherlock asks, although he now seems to be amused. Or smug …

“Sorry, erm … let me go and get changed. I’ll be five minutes.”

You hold up a finger to the detective before dashing upstairs back to where you were staying. Automatically, you walk over to your rucksack intent on picking out some clothes, before remembering the collection of new clothes you had been gifted. Thinking about who you were to visit, you decide it probably would be better to wear something clean. Pulling out a pair of freshly ironed jeans and a button down blue shirt, you walk over to the mirror in the room and watch yourself as you try on the clothes. They are simply and plain, but clean and heavenly soft on your skin. Disappointedly, you realise you will need something else, and so choose a brightly coloured cardigan that Molly had gifted to you. Smiling at your reflection, you gather your notebook and pen and walk down the stairs quickly, stopping at the bottom to put on your trainers. When you walk into the living room you notice that Sherlock has already put on his scarf, coat and gloves and is anxiously waiting for you. 

“What?” You ask, noticing his questioning gaze.

“Nothing, let’s go.” He replies simply, gesturing that you should follow him.

You move to grab your coat but then stop suddenly. It is filthy compared to your new clothes, and would completely ruin your new look.

“Bring it.” Sherlock’s voice echoes from the stairs, even though you can’t see him.

You don’t argue with the detective, knowing that it is probably freezing outside. With a sigh you pull on the coat, making a mental note to take it off as soon as you reach Miss Wilson’s house and hopefully she will not notice it.

Sherlock stands outside when you leave the building, holding his hand out to signal down a taxi. One pulls up quickly, and you wonder if every cabby in London knew about the detective and just hung around waiting for him. The thought makes you smile to yourself as you climb in behind the detective, careful not to dirty your new jeans as you do.

“Here” Sherlock says as you shift around in your seat. He holds out a chocolate bar in one hand, whilst simultaneously texting on his phone in the other. You take it with a muttered thank you, watching as the detective glares at his mobile.

“Mycroft?” You ask, wondering what the man could want at such an early time in the morning.

“Yes.” The man replies simply, before hiding his phone away in his coat pocket and making no attempt to check it, despite the fact that even you can hear it buzzing.

You begin to slowly eat the chocolate bar, grateful for something to give you a little bit of energy. You wondered if it was John’s idea, but don’t question Sherlock about it, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

“What are we going to tell Miss Wilson? We didn’t find anything.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock says with a smile, turning to glance out of the window at the misty and cold London morning. “Because there was nothing to find there.”

“Why would someone go to the trouble of creating a fake company? I mean, it seems like such a lot of work …”

“Because the reward is worth it.” Sherlock replies, and you turn to gaze at him.

“Do you know who is doing it?”

“No, but that’s what we’re going to find out.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzes again, the noise filling up the small taxi and making even the driver stop and look in his mirror for a few seconds. Sherlock grinds his teeth together in annoyance, before suddenly looking like he has had an idea. Before you have time to question him, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and wordlessly hands it over to you.

You scrunch up your empty chocolate wrapper into a ball and place it in your pocket before answering the call.

“Hello Mycroft.” You say somewhat cheerily, looking over to Sherlock for some inclination about what you’re doing answering his phone.

Mycroft says your name and you can hear his trademark amusement “My little brother has you answering his calls now. Whatever next. Are you to become the live in housemaid?”

Sherlock, hearing the comment, whips his head around with a glare at the phone, but you just laugh.

“I’d be useless. I can’t cook and have no idea how to work a washing machine.”

Mycroft laughs once quickly with genuine amusement, before becoming serious once again.

“Tell my dear brother that when he is ready to stop sulking, I need to speak to him, urgently.”

“Okay …” You drag the word out, looking over at Sherlock who just continues to glare out of the window like the whole world has done him wrong.

“Tell him …” Mycroft pauses then, and you don’t try and prompt him. You just hold the phone to your ear, waiting. “Tell him it is a family matter.”

“I will.” You say earnestly.

“Good morning …” Mycroft says as a farewell, and you smile after you hear him hang up. The man could be polite, when he wasn’t appearing in his sleek black car out of nowhere and asking you for favours.

Sherlock holds his hand out for the phone, and you oblige quickly.

“He said it was a family matter Sherlock. That sounds serious.”

“My brother has a habit of making everything sound serious.”

The cab pulls up outside an enormous London townhouse, and you spend so long gawking at it that Sherlock reaches around you and exits the taxi. You climb out slowly, unable to stop your mouth from falling open at the sheer size of the building.

“I knew she was rich but …” You whistle childishly, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes at your antics before turning and walking towards the door.

As he does, you take the time to pry of your dishevelled coat, unveiling your new clothes beneath. You know Sherlock notices what you are doing, but he doesn’t comment, just rings the door bell and stands with you outside the door whilst you wait for Miss Wilson.

To your surprise, a young woman opens the door, who invites you into the house and takes both yours and Sherlock’s coat. You smile shyly at her when you hand your over, and she returns the expression, before exiting the sitting room you are told to wait in.

“Mr Holmes.”

“Miss Wilson.” “You remember my associate …” To your surprise, Sherlock adds a ‘Miss’ to the beginning of your name, and you walk forward to shake hands with your client. You revel in the fact that she falters for a moment, before apparently recognising you.

“Of course, pleasure.” She says, somewhat icily, before inviting you both to sit down.

“Miss Wilson, we have come to inform you that the Agency you signed with in London does not exist.” Sherlock begins, pulling out some documents and placing them on the table before him.

“Before we begin, would you like some tea Mr Holmes?” Jessica sounds flustered, and you frown at her sudden change in mood.

“My associate will take tea, black with two sugars. Nothing for me thank you.” Sherlock says smoothly, and Miss Wilson turns to address another young woman stood in the doorway who you had not even noticed. You do not have time to be surprised by Sherlock before he begins talking again, and you pay close attention.

“The building the Agency was based in was rented for three months under the impression that it was to remain unaltered and to be a temporary photographer studio.” Sherlock continues, showing Miss Wilson a lease from the building he had no doubt uncovered last night whilst you had been asleep. “Your contracts and other paperwork where never posted, but were destroyed in one of the offices. You were the only person outside the people who you worked with that new of this … agency.”

“But that’s impossible.” Miss Wilson says, shaking her head so that he long curled red hair falls across her shoulders. “I saw all of the offices as I walked around the building. They’re must have been …”

“They’re only ever were three people in that building Miss Wilson. Four including yourself. The female receptionist, the young man who posed as the manager who hired you and the photographer.”

You notice that Sherlock used the word ‘posed’ and pick up on that immediately. Miss Wilson however, seems to be too shocked to notice.

“The other workers?”

“None. Any other noises you heard in that office coming from meeting rooms or the reception were simply from the neighbouring office buildings. The cameras from those buildings were hacked so that the audio would play through the speaker system throughout your building.”

You stop and listen as Sherlock gradually explains to Miss Wilson about the scam. You can see at times that she is trying to cry and respect the fact that she is managing to keep it together. A young woman comes in with your tea after a few moments, and you sit on the sofa drinking it slowly as Sherlock asks his client more questions.

“I would like my associate to have a quick look around your house, whilst I talk to your assistant” Sherlock says after a while, and you place your now empty cup on the table.

“My assistant?” Miss Wilson asks, and you and Sherlock both frown at her confusion.

“Yes, the one who first notified you of the job.”

Miss Wilson leans back in her chair and rubs her hands over her eyes. She no longer looks upset, but annoyed.

“He left.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock says, and you turn to see his expression change to one that almost makes you laugh. You can practically see the word ‘error’ written on his face.

“The young man left my employment yesterday morning when he discovered that I was no longer employed. He claimed that it would be stupid to stay with someone who did not have a regular wage …”

“I see.” Sherlock says simply after Jessica trails off. He clears his throat, before standing swiftly. “Then may we …”

“Of course.” Miss Wilson says, gesturing with her hand that you are both free to leave and explore her house.

Sherlock sends you a look and you rise from the sofa to quickly follow him from the room.

“So the assistant is working with the three people from the office building.” You whisper when you are out of earshot of the client.

“Two,” Sherlock replies quickly, opening a door and quickly peering in before shutting it just as quickly and continuing his path down the hallway.

“What?”

“The photographer had nothing to do with it. He was hired as a freelancer and paid in full two days ago for the work he did.”

“How …”

“I contacted him last night.” Sherlock replies simply, and you sigh.

“Of course. Do you do a lot when I’m asleep?”

“Yes.”

You continue to walk through the house together, occasionally wandering into a room. You noticed that Miss Wilson appeared to be a huge fan of modern things, as everything you looked at appeared to be new and barely used. Not to mention, extremely expensive.

After a quick look around you make your way back into the living room. Jessica Wilson is sat on the sofa when you re-enter the room, and looks up when Sherlock comes striding in.

“Miss Wilson, does this building have an attic?” The detective says suddenly, and you pretend to know what the man is talking about.

“No, not that I’m aware of. Although …” Miss Wilson stops then, before becoming wide eyed.

“Yes?” Sherlock prompts, moving closer to where the woman was sat.

“There is a basement. I used if for storage when I first moved in and haven’t been down there since.”

“To store what?”

“Old family things, paintings and antiques mostly. They didn’t go with the house so …”

“Your assistant helped you move them into the attic.” Sherlock interrupts. Suddenly his expression changes, and he bounds over to the sofa where you had both sit. He talks a seat quickly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sherlock?” You do not follow the detective, but stay stood in the doorway awkwardly.

 “Call Lestrade, tell me to come here alone at once. Armed.” He adds almost as an afterthought. You pull out your mobile and dial the number quickly; trying not to fret over the fact that Sherlock wanted an armed police officer.

You end the call with Lestrade quickly, with only the mention of Sherlock needing his assistance being enough to have the man guarantee he would be with you immediately.

“Miss Wilson, would you please contact your bank and ask them when the last time is was when you visited them?”

Miss Wilson frowns at the strange request but doesn’t argue, leaving the room quickly just as a car pulls up outside the building, and Lestrade makes his way to the front door.

 

“So this assistant told his buddies that his boss had a stash of priceless things in the attic.” Lestrade says after Sherlock had informed him of the case so far.

“But then why the Agency?” You say from your spot on the sofa, looking up at the two men near the fireplace. “I mean, that was a pretty elaborate …”

“They not only needed to get Miss Wilson out of the house long periods of time, they needed information. Personal information that …”

“You would give to an employer.” You supply, pleased when Sherlock nods at you before placing his hands in his pockets.

“Bank details, passport details, previous employment …” The man recites, shifting his weight around on his feet in his typical manner.

“Why?” Lestrade asks after a few seconds of silence, and Sherlock turns to look at him like the man had said something completely mad.

“Why?”

“Insurance?” You supply and Sherlock crinkles his eyes as if to say, ‘not quite’. He looks over to Lestrade who just shrugs.

“Those belongings have been in Miss Wilsons family for a very long time. Artefacts like that can’t just be sold, not even on the black market. They would need the documents that came with them to prove they were authentic. Which means …”

“They would need to get them. And they’re in her bank safe.” You answer, and although it is a guess, you assume it’s a good one when Sherlock smiles at you and nods.

“So they did all that with the office to get the information they needed so they could go to the bank, pick up the documents, and  _then_ steal the goods.” Lestrade supplies, nodding his head in understanding.

“Not just that …” Sherlock continues, before looking over at you. Your eyes widen with realisation, and you smile triumphantly.

“The pictures”

“What pictures?” Lestrade asks, as Sherlock almost bounces with joy that someone in the room is keeping up with him.

“They took hundreds of pictures of Miss Wilson. Hundreds of expressions and outfits …”

“Why?” Lestrade asks, looking thoroughly confused. You turn to Sherlock, expecting him to answer but he just waves his hand, signalling that you should continue.

“So they have all the personal information they need, and now they have enough to create a perfect impersonation …”

“Impersonation?” Lestrade says incredulously, and it’s your turn to roll your eyes in exasperation.

“Yes impersonation” Sherlock snaps at the inspector “They used the red headed receptionist to go to the bank in Miss Wilson place, knowing full well that she would be at the office where they could monitor her. They used the information they had to enter the safe and get the documents, and then had the pictures to ensure that the young woman looked and behaved exactly like Miss Wilson.”

“Hang on, if they wanted to rob her why didn’t they just do it?” Lestrade asks, crossing his arms and scowling. Your head was beginning to hurt from all the chaos, but secretly who were thrilled that you had managed to keep up with Sherlock.

“Because these people are clever Lestrade.” The detective replies, smirking at the inspector, causing him to glare back.

“Breaking into a house is one thing. A bank though …” Your statement is cut short when the door opens and Miss Wilson enters the room, holding her mobile phone.

“Three days ago.” Miss Wilson says, her face pale and eyes wide. “Apparently I was there three days ago and emptied out one of my safety boxes …”

“Miss Wilson, I suggest you go up to bed and get some rest.” Sherlock says suddenly, and you frown at Lestrade who mirrors your actions. “With your permission, we will stay here.”

“Why?” Miss Wilson asks, not making any move to turn and walk upstairs.

“Because you are going to be robbed tonight Miss Wilson.” The detective replies, and in that moment, you are glad the two men with you are armed.

Why did I ever agree to work with Sherlock Holmes?

That was the thought that kept racing through your mind as you crouched in the darkness, listening intently for any sign of movement. Lestrade was waiting outside the building with some police officers, and Sherlock had somehow managed to convince John to join you on your little adventure.

The basement to Miss Wilson’s house was freezing cold. There were no windows to let in light, so without the small blinking blub the room was completely pitch black. An old ‘servants entrance’ was the doorway in which Sherlock decided the thieves would enter the basement so naturally, that’s exactly where the detective had told you to hide. So here you were, crouched behind a huge wooden crate directly next to the door. John Watson was sat silently on the wooden stairway on the other side of the room that led upstairs, and the famous Sherlock Holmes was hidden somewhere else.

“Remind me not to listen to you ever again …” John whispers grumpily, and you hear a slight groaning of wood when the man apparently shifts his weight.

“Ssh …” Sherlock silences John quietly, but still manages to sound annoyed. 

Both John and Sherlock were armed, and you were extremely glad. The plan was, you were to wait until the robber’s entered the room. You would flank them from behind, quickly appearing from your hiding place and startling them to turn in your direction. Sherlock would stand and flick on the lights, showing that he and John were armed. Then they would march the thieves outside to the awaiting Lestrade and his police.

“Why aren’t the police doing this Sherlock …” You whisper as quietly as you could, and you wonder for a few seconds if the man had even heard you.

“They can’t.” Sherlock hisses back and you stop and try and understand what the detective means.

You didn’t understand why the police could just take your places, but then it hits you. Sherlock doesn’t have solid evidence. The building Miss Wilson worked in was completely monitored by these thieves. They made it so there was absolutely no evidence that they even existed. According to the bank, Miss Wilson legally obtained her documents and there was no crime committed whatsoever. And as for Miss Wilson’s assistant, all she had was the idea that he helped her move these valuable things into the basement.

Sherlock had put these small pieces of information together to solve the case, but without hard evidence such as witnesses and confessions, the police couldn’t technically  _do_ anything. Not of course, until the robbers turned up. Hence why Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and you were currently hiding in a freezing cold and pitch black basement in order to catch a group of people who may or may not try to break in.

You amuse yourself with these ideas for what seems to be ages. Miss Wilson had gone up to bed at 10pm sharp on Sherlock’s orders. After collecting John and coming down for the stake out, it must have been around 11pm. Now, with the fact that London was becoming relatively quiet outside and you were trying desperately not to fall asleep, you guessed you must have been here for a few hours at least.

Suddenly, you hear a rattling. The door you crouch near begins to shake almost unperceptively, and you freeze. You realise why Sherlock had thought that this would be there way in. According to Miss Wilson, there was no key for this door and it was never used. Apparently, that rule didn’t apply to her old assistant, who casually but silently swings the door open and strolls into the basement. You hear his footsteps as he walks past you, but wait silently, feeling that there may be someone else. Your gut feeling serves you well, as a few seconds later, the sound of someone else entering the room startles you.

“The car is waiting …” A male voice whispers and you notice that it is a foreign accent.

“This one …” Another voice replies, and you guess by his impeccable British accent that this is the assistant.

You wait until you hear the noise of boxes being shifted around, before quickly appearing from your hiding place. You shout “FREEZE!” It was cliché but it worked, with the two men startling and quickly turning in your direction.

Sherlock flicks on the lights, and you quickly blink to help your eyes adjust to the sudden change. You wish you hadn’t though, when you notice that there are not two men, but three. And all of them are armed.

“Drop your guns …” John’s steady voice echoes throughout the basement, and you know that he and Sherlock both have their guns trained on the intruders. However, you are not armed. The man facing you sees this, and smirks.

You duck just in time to avoid the bullet that soars past your head, and despite the ringing in your ears you are glad he shot at you. Lestrade can come …

“DROP IT!” John shouts, and you look up behind the crate in time to see him pinning one man to the floor and holding a gun against him. The man loosens his grip on his gun, and it clatters to the ground. Before you have time to look for Sherlock, a huge weight pushes you to the stone floor from behind. The wind is knocked out of you, and you don’t have a second to recover before you are swiftly kicked in the face.

Everything becomes blurry, and you blink as you roll around on the stone floor, trying to clear away the fuzziness and focus on what is happening.

More yelling occurs, and you vaguely make out several figures enter the room from the doorway. Suddenly, rough hands haul you up from the floor and push you into a wall. You swing your hands around blindly, trying to break free, before you notice the woman’s face.

“Donavon?”

“Stay there.” The woman hisses, and you lean up against the wall, breathing heavily and trying to calm your rapid breathing.

Three police officers pry the assistant from the floor by John, whilst Donavon joins Lestrade and Sherlock in cornering a second man. The man who attacked you is nowhere to be seen.

“Mr Clay.” Sherlock says coolly, and Lestrade laughs. He actually laughs.

“Friend of yours?” Donavon asks, holding her gun up to the man as two police officers enter the room and move to escort Mr Clay.

“Been looking for this Bastard for ages.” Lestrade says in his typical London drawl. “Mr Johnathan Clay …” Lestrade says the name the same way the man says ‘diet’ or ‘low fat’. Obviously he wasn’t a fan …

“Who?” John says, following Sherlock out of the basement and you move quickly to follow them, ignoring the concerned glance Donovan sends you. You walk up the stone staircase up onto the streets of London slowly, enjoying seeing the flashing blue lights.

“John Clay, a man of Royal European descent who lost his fortune due to gambling and addiction …”

“The usual.” John says with a hint of amusement, and you wonder how many royals the two men had met before.

“ _He’s_ royalty …” You ask incredulously, stepping out onto the street behind John and Sherlock and watching as the man is all but dragged towards the police cars.

“Get your hands off me!” The screaming of John Clay echoes down the deserted street, and the young police officer holding him grasps the man’s arm more firmly. “I’m ROYALTY! ROYALTY DAMN YOU!”

“Our apologises …” John says loudly enough for the man to hear him, as Mr Clay whips his head around to glare at him. Another police officer steps forward to cuff the man, but the man still struggles. “Would His Majesty please remain calm so we can  _please_ escort Sir to the police station. Please.”

You stifle your smile as the man blusters and struggles against the two police officers who manhandle him into a waiting police car.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s voice is concerned, and you turn to frown at him curiously. Concern coming from Sherlock was rare … and it was freaking you out a little bit.

“What?” You ask before reaching towards the spot on your forehead that the man was all but glaring at. You wince in pain involuntarily when you touch it, and feel some hot blood cling to your fingers and run down the side of your face. 

“I’ll have a look at that when we get back to Baker Street.” John says, pulling out his mobile and apparently texting Mary.

“I’m fine …” You start, but one look from John is enough to shut you up.

“Want a ride home gentlemen? And Miss …” Lestrade asks, approaching your group who stand awkwardly outside the entrance to Miss Wilson’s home.

“There were three men …” You begin, before swaying slightly on your unsteady feet.

“She needs to go to a hospital …” Donovan says coolly, and you begin to shake your head before she even finishes her sentence.

“No need. We have a Doctor at Baker Street. I’ll meet you there soon.” Sherlock states, and you are too tired to argue. You let John lead you down the road to find a taxi, sighing when you hear Lestrade call after you that all  _three_ men will be taken to the police station. You wave a farewell, before heading home. 

 

You and John arrive at Baker Street before Sherlock. He insisted in going along with Lestrade to ensure that everyone at the police station had the correct information, much you assume, to the delight of Lestrade and his team.

“Here, this should warm you up.” John says kindly, placing a thick and expensive looking glass into your hands.

You smell the golden liquid within the glass, and can’t help but pull a face at the overwhelming scent.

“Drink it.” John persists with a smile, coming to sit next to you on the sofa with a first aid kit in his hands.

“I didn’t know Doctor’s prescribed alcohol. Where do you work?” You joke lightly, before taking a tiny swig of the liquid. It burns your tongue and throat slightly, but your friend is right, it warms you up immediately and you sigh in contentment.

“What happened? I didn’t even notice …” John sounds guilty you realise, and you shrug casually to try and make light of the situation.

“He kicked me.”

“In the head?!” John responds angrily, and you hope the anger is not directed at you.

“I was on the floor, and he kicked me. Probably tried to knock me out or something.”

John shakes his head and scoffs “I didn’t even notice.”

“To be fair, you were pretty occupied.” You reply, before taking another swig of your drink to distract you from the stinging pain that came as John cleaned your wound.

You sit in silence for a few moments, allowing John to Doctor you without protest. He sighs every now and again, and you hope he’s not hurt as well. After a view more minutes of poking and prodding, John seems content with his work, and reaches into the bag to extract something before closing it and throwing it down onto the sofa next to him.  

“Painkillers, take them tomorrow. No doubt you’ll have a bit of a headache.” John says, carefully placing a small tray of six tablets into your hands. “I’m heading home, but if you feel dizzy, nauseous, unexplainably irritated …”

“John, I’m staying with Sherlock Holmes. I always feel irritated”

John laughs, before looking at you with concern. “I’m sorry, we should have …”

You hold up a hand to silence him. “John I know what I’m getting into. Being with Sherlock is just as bad, if not safer, than being on the streets. I’m a big girl; I can take care of myself.”

You don’t know where that comment had come from, and wonder if you had drank more alcohol than you may have thought.

“Bed.” The man replies simply, before surprising you immensely by giving a quick kiss on the forehead.

“Goodnight John.”

 

“John said bed rest.” Sherlock’s voice startles you, and you turn to see the detective stood by the window, looking out onto London with his violin in his hands.

You take the final two steps in a normal manner, your plan of sneaking out now seeming completely stupid. Of course the man would hear you. He’s Sherlock Holmes …

“And I am rested, just going out for a bit …”

To your surprise Sherlock doesn’t argue or even comment. He just huffs a response, before picking up his violin and begin to play a haunting melody. You take that as your cue to leave and slowly descend down the stairs, making doubly sure that you’re carrying your needed cash in your pocket.

 

**John Watson POV**

The buzzing of my mobile wakes me, and I groan as I blindly reach around on my night stand. I had arrived home at 4am, and it was now 6am. I was going to kill Sherlock Holmes …

“Sherlock, do you have any idea what time it is?” I hiss into the phone, freezing when Mary shifts in her sleep and turns away from me.

“She’s gone”

“Gone?” I frown, not understanding “What do you mean gone?”

“She went out, about half an hour ago.”

I sigh, rubbing my eyes to clear away sleep and wake myself up a bit. “Ok, don’t panic …”

“Panic? I’m not panicking, I don’t panic.” Sherlock says, so quickly that I roll my eyes.

“Sure you don’t.”

“Just come to Baker Street” Sherlock replies and it’s not a request, but a demand. 

“Why?” I ask, before realisation hits me. I sigh once again, sitting up in bed slowly and trying not to jostle my sleeping wife. “You’re going to follow her.”

“Yes, and the longer you delay, the harder that’s going to be.”

I turn to look at Mary. “Alright” I whisper into the phone, “Give me ten minutes.”

 

**Reader POV**

You squinted as you walked down the streets of London, the persistent throbbing of your head making you feel exhausted and fed up. But you had something you needed to do first, and so you kept walking. Occasionally, you would reach down and tap the pocket that stored your £100 cash, just to make sure it was still there. The walk to the café took a long time, your tired feet dragging and every crossing seeming to keep you waiting, despite the early hour. As you reach your destination however, the smell of hot food and the music quietly pouring over to you makes you smile brightly.

“’Ello darlin’!” Michael greets you as you walk over to the counter of the tiny London café. It was cheap and greasy, but many times had been your saving grace.

You smile at an elderly gentlemen sat at a table, and he tips his holey black hat in your direction, making you giggle.

“Cuppa?” Jill, Michaels’ wife asks from her place behind the counter.

“Please.” You respond brightly, unbuttoning your coat slightly after being hit by the wave of warmth from the kitchen.

Michael whistles, and you smile shyly. “Nice digs, they new?” The man asks, eyeing your new top and jumper.

“Yep” You reply fondly “Got them for work.”

“Oh that’s right, you’re working with Holmes now eh. Looks like we’ve got a detective on our ‘ands love.” Michael says jokingly to Jill, as she steps around him and passes you a small foam cup containing scolding hot tea. 

You reach into your coat, and pull out the 5 £20 notes. “Here’s for the next month.” You say, and Jill and Michael both beam at you.

“Right, no problem darling. The amount of people that wish they knew who you were …” Michael says, shaking his head with a smile as he puts the money in the till.

“What?” You ask, before taking a quick sip of tea.

“When your people come in and we say it’s already paid for, they want to know who you are.” Jill says with a smile. You nearly laugh at the fact that she had said ‘your people’ rather than simply ‘homeless people’.

“Can I get some chips and teas to take out.” You say suddenly “I’m going to see a couple of mates.”

“Course” Jill says with a beaming smile, before walking back into the kitchen and beginning to make up your order.

You leave the café a few minutes later, the tea having warmed you up perfectly and distracted you somewhat from your aching head. Neither of your friends had mentioned your bandaged head, but then again, they never cared what you looked like, just that you were happy and well fed. That was probably the reason that so many people you knew chose that café, you muse, as you walk back down the streets towards your second destination.

You spot the gang sat in their usual spot, all huddled together and laughing despite the freezing cold. A smile grows on your face as you approach them, and they all wave and woop when they spot you.

“Good morning my love.” Bill, the 76 year old man says from his spot under his sleeping bag.

You wish everyone a good morning, before handing out the tea’s and chips.

“God bless” David says, the 28 year old recovering drug addict showing his lack of teeth when he smiles at you warmly.

“Everyone alright?” You ask after the goods had been passed around, and a murmured chorus of ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ is the response.

“You alright darling?” The older woman of the group asks, nodding towards your head. You didn’t even know her name, but the woman was amazing, almost like the mother of the group.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine” You murmur in response, self-consciously reaching up to touch your bandaged injury. “Just a little bump and bruise. I’ll live.”

The woman smiles, before tucking in to her chip breakfast. Watching the group eat and listening to their stories usually makes you feel happy. Since working with Sherlock, you had been getting money from clients as a thank you, meaning you could afford to do this for them on a regular basis. But now that you had a warm place to return to, a bed and a kitchen filled with somewhat edible food, you just felt guilty.

“You should be heading home darling.” Bill says, cradling his tea in his hands like it is something precious.

You didn’t even notice you had been sat with your friends for such a long time, and quickly hug everyone and say your goodbyes. You would return soon, but for now, you needed to be heading back to Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes.


	3. The Vampire of Sussex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Arthur Conan Doyle - The Sussex Vampire
> 
> A concerned father comes to seek the help of Sherlock Holmes after he claims his deranged teenager daughter believes she is a vampire, and is tormenting her baby brother.
> 
> A strange case leads both you and Sherlock Holmes away from London and into the countryside, meaning long train journeys and plenty of time alone with the detective. Something of which, you are definitely not used to.

You and Sherlock Holmes were sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street. The fire was roaring and you enjoyed the heat as it washed over you and warmed you to the core. Three cups of tea were scattered around the room, and you were busily writing away on your notepad as Sherlock Holmes’ latest client was telling his story.

Mr Ferguson seemed very average to you. Middle aged, balding, but friendly and seemed to be happy and polite. That is of course, until he began to mention his family, and the reason for his visit to you and the famous detective.

“A vampire?”

You can count the times on one hand when you had seen Sherlock Holmes looked truly confused. There was the time when you informed him that you had never read a single book all the way through in your life and then there was last night when you played Cluedo with him for the first time, and won victoriously. Sherlock had brushed it off as beginner’s luck. That is of course, after he had managed to begin speaking again.

“Yes Mr Holmes, a vampire” Mr Ferguson says, before pulling out a tissue from his pocket and wiping his sweaty forehead.

“Is this a practical joke? I should warn you I have an extremely bland sense of humour” Sherlock says, although you note that he sounds more disappointed than annoyed.

“No Mr Holmes! Of course not!”

“What kind of vampire?” Your questions cause’s two heads to quickly swing to your direction, and you look down and begin to pretend taking notes to hide your blushing face.

“Mr Ferguson, for the first time in a long time I can honestly state that I’m … confused.”

“Ditto.” You reply, finally looking up from your unflattering doodle of Mycroft to watch as Sherlock fidgets in his leather arm chair. “Well, not about the ‘long time’ thing. I was confused this morning.”

“You believe your daughter to be a vampire …” Sherlock continues, appearing to ignore your comment.

“No Mr Holmes, certainly not. My  _daughter_ believes she is a vampire.”

“History of mental illness?” Sherlock says then, snapping quickly into detective mode. He nods in your direction, and you know that is the silent order to take notes. You could almost hear Sherlock in your head saying ‘ _proper_ notes’.

“Yes Mr Holmes, she was diagnosed with depression and anxiety when she was 14. She’s 16 now, and our doctor believes she may also have bipolar …”

You write furiously, before catching one word in particular that confuses you. You didn’t think people had their own doctor …

“Our doctor?” You ask, not even raising your head from your task.

“Yes, our family has a private nurse and doctor.” You nod, before quickly scrawling that underneath what you had already written.

“That sounds expensive.” You mumble, and regret it immediately. You wondered if the painkillers John had you taking to be affecting your brain.

“It is, however I will not gamble with the health of my family. Only the best …”

“Mr Ferguson, why exactly have you come to me?” Sherlock asks, the man sitting with his hands caved under his chin as he usually does when he is thinking “Surely this matter would be better suited to a Doctor, or even, as much as I loathe to say it, a psychiatrist.”

“I …” Mr Ferguson stops then, getting choked up. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just continues to watch him closely. “My daughter is only 16 years old Mr Holmes, and for the majority of her life she has been in the so called ‘care’ of people who claim to be able to help her. No one ever has, and I cannot bring myself to put my poor girl through that again …”

“I’m sorry.” You say, after the man had pulled out a tissue again and wiped his moist eyes.

“She’s never been to school, always had to be home schooled. She hasn’t got any friends. I had hoped that when I remarried, she might enjoy having siblings …  But they don’t get along. She spends every moment of her life in her bedroom, unable to communicate with us. No one understands her …”

“I’ll take this case.” Sherlock says suddenly, standing and buttoning up his jacket in one smooth movement.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ll take the case Mr Ferguson. There is a train at 12:30 today, so we should be with you down in Sussex by this afternoon. Until then I suggest you drive home and inform your family.”

Mr Ferguson looks at you, and then back at Sherlock, a huge smile creeping onto his face.

“Thank you Mr Holmes, thank you!” The man exclaims, shaking hands with the detective and letting Sherlock guide him to the door.

You sit perplexed, listening as Sherlock wishes the man farewell at the door. The man comes bounding back into the room on his mobile, no doubt texting as usual.

“I thought you didn’t like domestic cases …” Is all you can think of to say, the strangeness of the case and Sherlock’s behaviour confusing you greatly.

“I do, but this isn't a domestic case.”

“Isn’t it?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just sends you a look that’s half ‘of course’ and the other half ‘you idiot’.

“Texting John?” You ask, standing quickly and regretting it when your stiff legs and sore head protest. It had only been three days after all, and your body was pretty rubbish at healing.

“Yep.” Sherlock pops the ‘p’ in a childlike manner. He knows you hate it when he does that. “Just checking you're travel friendly …” The man mutters, and you turn from your path to the kitchen to gaze at him questioningly.

“What?”

“What?” The man responds, pocketing his phone and walking towards his bedroom, no doubt to pack.

“I thought you were asking John to come with you.”

“Of course not” The detective exclaims, and before you have time to be flattered, he continues “He’d be worried about Mary the whole time. It would be a nuisance.” And with that the detective dashes into his bedroom and begins loudly throwing clothes on his bed.

With his back to you he doesn’t see the face you pull, before you walk to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. If you were going to be travelling with Sherlock Holmes, you were going to need something a great deal stronger than tea.

 

You and Sherlock stand outside Baker Street, waiting for your taxi and shifting you bag on your shoulder and wrapping your coat around yourself more. It was still winter, nearly Christmas you realise.

“What about Mrs Hudson?” You ask, turning to see Speedy’s and it reminding you of your lovely friend.

“She knows we’re heading out. Hopefully we’ll be coming back tomorrow.” Sherlock says casually, just as the taxi pulls directly in front of you and your companion.

“That soon?” You ask breathlessly as you clamber in behind Sherlock.

“Of course, it’s not a complicated case.”

“If that’s true, why are heading all the way to Sussex?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to your question, just smiles to himself and looks out of the taxi window.

You had never been in Euston Station before. You had always believed it to be the posh station, and would never have been able to make it five feet near the building without being shooed away by security. This time however, you are smiled at by the attendants, and one even offers to carry your bag, even with it being just a small rucksack. You politely declined, following Sherlock sweep through the train station and board your perfectly timed train. Although, you wondered who was perfectly timed, the train or Sherlock.

“What do you think?”

“About …” Sherlock lounges in his chair opposite you. Of course the man would buy all four tickets around a table, just to ensure no one would sit next to him.

“Don’t play coy Sherlock, it really doesn’t suit you.” You mutter, trying not to be distracted when the train lurches forward and begins to glide to your destination.

Sherlock laughs once quickly at your comment, before becoming serious again. “I think it’s not as simply as Mr Ferguson believes it to be.”

“You should have got John, he’s the medical expert. Or Molly …” You reason after a few moments of silence, and Sherlock sighs. You secretly enjoy frustrating the man.

“Molly has absolutely no deductive reasoning, and as I said before, John would be a nuisance.” Sherlock replies simply, and you watch as he begins to quickly glance at other passengers on the train.

“And I’m not?” You ask, glad to hear that your voice hid your surprise quite well.

“No.” Sherlock says, and you must seem shocked, because he rolls his eyes at your expression. “You’re my assistant.”

The trip to Sussex went far too quickly for your likely. You were enjoying your time on a train, and the fact that Sherlock was quiet for most of the journey. He had insisted that you read him the notes you had made on the case, and so the man had sat silent gazing out the window, listening to you speak ever since.

“… history of mental health issues. Two siblings, one baby boy, age unknown and one teenage brother …”

“Do you read John your notes on the cases?” Sherlock interrupts, and you raise your head to look at him. It was a random question, and you wondered irrationally if you were in trouble.

He had moved from his position leaning up against the glass window, and was currently resting his head on his hands, with his elbows sitting on the table in front of him. You close the notebook before placing it down on the table. Your voice was beginning to become horse from all the speaking, and you wanted a break.

“Sometimes.” You answer, suddenly feeling shy “When he came to check up on me yesterday morning I told him about the things he had missed from the case. I couldn’t remember everything so I just picked up my notebook …”

“Do you think he misses it?” Sherlock interrupts you once again, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“You’re the detective.” You reply, and Sherlock laughs once.

“True, but John Watson has become remarkably good at hiding things from me.” Sherlock says, and you note the fact that the man looks troubled.

“Really?” You ask incredulously.

The detective is not given a chance to reply to your question, as a voice from over the train intercom announces you have arrived at your destination. Sherlock grabs his leather duffle bag and sweeps out of his seat in one fluid motion, and you scramble ungracefully to follow him, almost forgetting to collect your notebook from the table.

 

“Thank you for coming Mr Holmes, nice to see you again …” The man adds to you as you walk into the house behind Sherlock.

“Thanks, you have a lovely house.” You reply honestly, looking around the pristine hallway and into the living room beyond.

“Thank you dear. Please come through.” Mr Ferguson waves a hand towards another doorway and you follow Sherlock into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” You turn to Sherlock and watch as the detective looks at you at the same time.

“Please, that would be great.”

Mr Ferguson begins moving around the small but immaculate kitchen, and in no time two steaming mugs of coffee are placed in front of you and Sherlock.

“Your wife?” Sherlock asks, before taking a sip of ridiculously sweetened coffee without any milk. You wince as he drinks it, wondering why on earth he needed to add four sugars to such a small cup.

“At work …” Mr Ferguson replies distractedly, no doubt also being bemused by Sherlock’s strange drinking habits. “She won’t be back until this evening.”

“Are your children here?” You ask, realising suddenly that it must be the Christmas holidays.

“My step son Mark is day school, a cookery class I think. And since the incident with my daughter, my young son has been taken to a daily nursery. Just for the time being of course.”

“Your daughter?”

“With her nurse upstairs, she’ll be leaving soon now I’m back.” The man adds, before moving to put the milk back into his fridge.

“She doesn’t stay all day?” You ask, noticing Sherlock was scoping out the pictures on the fridge and the rest of the room without moving from his seat. It was eerie.

“Our nurse comes in in the mornings around 9am, spends a few hours with my daughter and then she leaves just after lunchtime. I’m usually home from work by then you see.”

“Has this nurse been working with you for a long time?” Sherlock asks, before taking another sip of his coffee. You reach to get your trusty notebook, sensing that now would be a good time to start writing.

“Oh yes. She was working with my step son Mark, but since my poor girl Ellie… Well …”

“Working’ with him” Sherlock asks again, emphasising the word working in an odd way. Mr Ferguson sighs, and sits down on one of the kitchen stools opposite you.

“He’s disabled, lost the ability to walk after he was ill as a child.”

“That’s terrible.” You say honestly, and you feel Sherlock eye you curiously from behind his coffee cup.

“Yes, but he’s a lovely boy; quiet, studious and very intellectual.”  

“Does Mark have an interest in science Mr Ferguson?” Sherlock asks suddenly, and you wonder why he’s suddenly changed the conversation.

“No, not that I know of. Although he is very keen on history …”

Suddenly, a phone rings from another room in the house and Mr Ferguson looks flustered for a few seconds before walking towards the door and excusing himself.

“What are you thinking?” You ask Sherlock quietly, trying not to listen to the conversation your client was having in the other room.

“You can talk to the daughter,  _alone.”_ The detective says ominously, before pulling off his jacket and rolling up the sleeves to his buttoned shirt. That’s his ‘I need to be comfy I’m going to be messing around with stuff’ outfit you realise, and try not to smirk.

“You know what’s going on don’t you?” You ask suddenly, realisation hitting you like a ton of bricks. “That’s why you took the case so suddenly. What …”

“I have a few ideas. I need to look around the house, and you need to talk to the daughter.” Sherlock doesn’t even wait for Mr Ferguson to return before he starts to open kitchen cupboards and pull out certain boxes.

“What do you want me to ask her?” You say, standing from the table and quietly pushing the stool against the breakfast bar.

“Nothing.” Sherlock replies, his back facing you. “Just keep her company.”

 

“Hello.” You say sitting down next to the young teenage girl. You introduce yourself, waiting for the girl to do the same. When she doesn’t though, you sigh, and watch as she begins to draw things on a piece of paper on the carpet in front of her. “Your Dad came to get me and my friend Sherlock Holmes, he’s worried about you. That must be nice, having someone who cares about you.” You continue with a smile, but Ellie doesn’t even look up. “I don’t have a Dad you see. So I don’t know what that’s like.”

“It’s nice” A tiny voice replies, and it takes all your willpower not to punch the air in triumph.

“I can imagine, although he’s also worried about your baby brother …”

“Me too”

“What?” You were definitely not expecting that.

Silence again, the young girl just continues to draw circles on the piece of paper in front of her “Ellie, why are you worried about your brother?”

You turn to look at a stunned Mr Ferguson who stands in the doorway to his daughter’s bedroom.

“We need to talk …” Is all he says, before he walks down the stairs, gesturing you to follow.

 

“I haven’t been completely honest with you Mr Holmes.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just continues standing in the living room with his arms crossed over his chest. To your surprise the man is covered in what looks like flour and other weird things from the kitchen. You wondered what on Earth he was doing. “My wife wants me to put my daughter into some sort of home, or hospital …”

“What happened?” Sherlock asks, and you turn to frown at him, confused.

Mr Ferguson just sighs, looking exhausted before rubbing his hands together.

“Every night for the past few weeks, my daughter manages to get into my son’s nursery. We are woken up by him crying, or screaming more like it. Every time we go into the room, she is always doing the same thing. Sucking on the baby’s’ neck.”

“What?!” You say horrified, but Sherlock just looks scientifically curious.

“It’s the same every night” Mr Ferguson says, and he looks so exhausted in that moment, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed him looking tired before.

“Why the secrecy?”

“I had hoped you would be able to help my daughter Mr Holmes. Without the need of any more charlatans who call themselves medical professionals. My daughter has been pushed and prodded since she was a baby. The last thing she needs now is to be treated like a zoo exhibit. Or with disgust …” He adds glancing at you, and you feel slightly guilt for being so horrified earlier.

“So she doesn’t think she’s a vampire …” You say, trying to understand.

“Of course she does, why else would she …”

“Mr Ferguson, when is your wife due to be home?” Sherlock interrupts, looking at the watch on his wrist.

“In about an hour, why?”

“I think we all need to have a conversation.” The detective says, before sitting down next to you on the sofa.

 

“She spoke to you?” Mrs Ferguson gasps, looking over to her husband who nods an assurance.

“Yes.” You reply, and you wonder how long it had actually been since they last heard there daughter speak.

“Well, what did she say?” Mrs Ferguson continues, looking over at you with a excited expression, and you shift around on the sofa uncomfortably.

“Not much, just a few words in response to things I asked her.”

“How is your youngest son?” Sherlock asks from his spot next to you, and the mood drops instantly.

“He’s … not well.” Mrs Ferguson replies, before looking down at her lap.

“He’s showing odd symptoms, but the Nurse checked him over. He’s not ill or anything.” Mr Ferguson adds, grasping his wife’s hand.

“When did your son start showing symptoms?” Sherlock asks, although the way he says it makes you think he already knows the answer.

“Three weeks ago, when the kids all got off from school.”

“And your daughter, when did she start to enter his bedroom in the night, and …”

“Attack him.” Mrs Ferguson hisses, and you can’t help but wince. “A few days after that. Ever since she’s been obsessed with anything vampire.”

“What did the doctor say about your son’s condition?” Sherlock asks casually.

Mr and Mrs Ferguson eye each other for a few seconds, a look passing between them that makes Sherlock lean forward in his chair and scowl.

“We haven’t taken him to a doctor.” Mr Ferguson says after a while, and he shift sin his chair, appearing uncomfortable. You can’t blame him, the way Sherlock was looking at them made even you feel uncomfortable.

“Your son …”

“ _Our_ son is distressed Mr Holmes, which is understandable given the circumstances.” Mrs Ferguson hisses back, and her husband rubs her hand reassuringly.

“He barely eats, doesn’t sleep and cries constantly. These are completely normal symptoms for a child who is distressed …”

Sherlock takes a deep breath then, and you don’t know why, but your heart begins pounding madly. He turns towards the couple, holding his hands up under his chin and closing his eyes before he speaks.

“Take your son to the nearest GP and ask to give him a blood test immediately …” The man says calmly, and Mrs Ferguson sobs and puts a hand over her face. Mr Ferguson just looks frozen, in complete shock.

“Sherlock …” You warn, watching as the man sits back in his chair and looks softly at the couple. This isn’t acting though you realise, this is the real Sherlock.

“It will be alright, if we act quickly.” He says softly, helping the woman stand and watching as she walks to the doorway to collect her son. “Mr Ferguson you can go with her, we will handle things here.”

Mr Ferguson nods, looking numb, before following his wife from the room. You hear Ellie and her Nurse upstairs, and wonder when the other son will be arriving home.

“What’s going on Sherlock?” You ask as the man paces up and down the room by the fireplace, appearing to be conflicted and worried. It makes you feel uneasy.

“I need you to talk to Ellie again. Get her to tell the truth”

“What truth?” You ask with a frown, but rising from your chair anyway.

“That she is trying to save her brother’s life” Sherlock says simply, before marching back into the kitchen.

Now you were utterly confused. So the baby was ill, apparently Ellie was trying to help and …

Realisation hits you like a blow to the head. Although you think, that may be a stupid analogy after your last case. You race up the stairs to Ellie with a smile on your face. She’s not trying to hurt him you realise; she’s trying to help him.

You watch as Sherlock walks to each cupboard in the kitchen with a determined expression etched onto his face. Strange noises are beginning to descend from upstairs, and you swear you could hear things being thrown around. Part of you wants to go back upstairs, after all, it was you who set her off.

“Maybe I should …”

“No.” Sherlock replies, before you even had chance to finish your sentence.

You sigh “She was fine a minute ago, and then I mentioned her parents taking her brother to the hospital …”

“I’m sure that would be a good explanation as to her sudden change in mood.” The detective says, finally appearing to have collected what he wanted from the cupboards, as he now stands before you and begins to roll up his sleeves. “She didn’t talk to you?”

“No.” You hear the nurse beginning to raise her voice, and the banging and crashing becomes even louder. “She’s upset.” Sherlock actually rolls his eyes at your comment, and you resist the urge to make a comment about his insensitivity.

“Understandable, given the circumstances.”

“What’s wrong with her Sherlock?” You didn’t want to explicitly ask Mr Ferguson, or even the nurse, but you were beginning to become worried that maybe you and Sherlock were not going to be enough to help Ellie.

“You just said, she’s upset …”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Sherlock stops, before sighing heavily. It was getting close to midnight, and you had been travelling and then working all day. Even the great Sherlock Holmes gets tired you think, resisting the urge to yawn yourself. “There’s nothing  _wrong_  with her. But …”

“Yes?” You prompt. Sherlock stands up a little bit straighter, before suddenly ripping open a packet that was in front of him. The sudden act nearly makes you jump, and you wonder why the detective had suddenly becoming so … angry.

“Bipolar 2 disorder, selective mutism and some form of autism. But that’s just my diagnosis.”

He says it so quickly that you have to replay the words over in your head, just to be sure that you heard him correctly. So Mr Ferguson was wrong you think; poor Ellie really does need a doctor. Sherlock though, doesn’t seem to agree, as he is still working away busily.

Suddenly, a ringtone sounds, and you pat around in your pocket for a few seconds, before you realise that the sound is not coming from you. Sherlock quickly reaches over the back of the chair where his coat is resting, and pulls out his expensive but often abused phone.  

“Mr Ferguson.” He answers, not even looking at the name on the screen “Yes everything is alright here. Did you get the results? Ok …” The man frowns as he listens to the client, before a smile creeps onto his face “Excellent.” Suddenly, you hear Mr Fergusons voice becomes louder, and Sherlock looks chastened. You try to hide your smirk; obviously the detective had chosen his words poorly. “No of course, not excellent …”

You try to listen to the other side of the conversation, but only manage to hear muffled words and the occasional sound that seems to be someone blowing there noise. Judging by the disgusted look on Sherlock’s face, that is exactly what Mr Ferguson was doing. After a few minutes, the conversation stops and the detective places his phone back into his pocket.

“What did he say?” You ask, after it becomes apparent that Sherlock was not going to tell you automatically.

“The baby boy is going to be fine.”

“Oh thank god.” You say, letting out a relieved breath. “What was wrong with him?

“Ricin”

You frown, not having a clue what that meant. “What’s that?” Sherlock doesn’t look worried or even surprised at the diagnosis, so you hope that is a good sign.

“A very deadly poison. It was used by assassins during the cold war. Nasty little poison, and virtually impossible to detect.”

“But how … how … “ You stammer, and Sherlock stops his activities to scowl at you.

“If you’re going to be doing this with me you’re going to need to expand your vocabulary.”

“How did the Ricin get into his system?” You say, deliberately speaking in an exaggerated British accent that makes the man roll his eyes. He’s being doing that a lot lately you realise, and mentally high five yourself for managing to exasperate the man on more than one occasion.

“Good, now you’re asking the right questions.”

“You know don’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Ok, so we know that Ellie was trying to help her baby brother, so she knew he was being poisoned.”

You stop, frowning to yourself. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, obviously wanting you to get to the point without his assistant.

“Yes, go on.”

“So she must have seen someone poison him here, as she doesn’t leave the house and only sees her baby brother at home …” You trail off, waiting for Sherlock to correct you. Amazingly however, he doesn’t.

“Excellent go on.”

“Well, the Nurse could have access to chemicals, but …”

“But …” The detective prompts. You sit up straighter, clearing your throat and attempt to make yourself look more professional. The posture works you think, as some ideas begin to course through your brain.

“She is with Ellie all the time whilst she is here. Ellie wanted to help her brother, so if she knew her nurse was poisoning him, she would have done something. Acted up around her, tried to stop her, but she hasn’t done anything like that. The nurse is the only person in this house that Ellie seems to really like.”

“Excluding you.” Sherlock says, and you note with some surprise that he doesn’t seem annoyed or even bothered by that. In fact he seems, pleased.

“Me?”

“She talked to you, shows that she is comfortable around you. And there must be some degree of affection there.”

“Huh, that’s sweet.” You smile to yourself.

“Concentrate …” Sherlock chastens in his deep monotone, and you clear your throat awkwardly.

“Right, sorry” You  rub your temple, trying to ease the ache that was beginning to grow. You hadn’t taken any painkillers today, and were sure John was going to have something to say about that when you got home. “So she knew he was being poisoned, but couldn’t stop it happening. She could only try and help him afterward …”

“Exactly.”

“Ok, that’s it. I’m lost.”

“You’re not lost, you just need more information.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“Ricin is a deadly poison, but it is not hard to come by.”

“Really?”

You had never heard of the poison, and wondered if it was in something you had yourself. A morbid part of your brain thought it may come in useful, and the other part was horrified at your train of thought and wondered if you had spent too long in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

“It’s found in most kitchens in fact. Chocolate, castor oil, castor beans, sweets …” As Sherlock lists off each of the food, he glances down to where the item sits on the table. “These brands in particular contain high amounts of the substance. In high quantities and regularly administered, Ricin poison can be fatal within four days. Obviously someone had been feeding the child a mixture of these things, judging by the random quantities not in the packets …”

You realise then what Sherlock had been doing in the kitchen. Weighing each item and trying to figure out how much had been used. So now all you needed to know was who would have been so brainless or uncaring enough to feed a child a mixture of random foods …

“Mark” You say quietly, realising dawning on you.

“He has been feeding his baby brother small quantities of chocolate and cakes that he has been making in his cookery classes. Most adults would know not to feed to infant these ingredients, but the boy seemed to be overconfident in his cookery skills.” Yes, you think to yourself, Sherlock Holmes definitely had a dark sense of humour “Slowly, he has been poisoning his baby brother.”

“On purpose?” You ask horrified.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Some more sounds descend from upstairs, and you remember that you and Sherlock are not alone in the house.

“But what about Ellie?” You ask, looking directly above yourself towards the room in which the teenager was currently in.

“She knew this, but obviously the children agreed to keep it a secret from the adults, in fear that they would get in trouble. Ellie saw her brother becoming ill, and knew of a way to help.”

“She tried to suck the poison out.” It was common knowledge that that’s what you should do if ever poisoned, but most people understand that it was referring to a dart, bite or sting. Not being fed something.

“Obviously it didn’t work, it’s impossible. But she wasn’t trying to extract the poison, she was trying to communicate what was happening with her brother. She thought her parents would understand, but as usual, they completely missed it.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience.” You say, but Sherlock seems to ignore the comment. Instead he just crosses his arms over his chest, turning from vulnerable human to robotic detective in an instant.

“Her father linked her behaviour to her fasciation of vampires, and assumed that she was mimicking them. If they had tried to understand what she was trying to do …”

“YES!”

A loud voice screams from the doorway, and you and Sherlock turn in unison to see an ecstatic Ellie jumping up and down and clapping her hands together. You smile when you see her, and she continues to laugh to herself. Behind her you spot her nurse, looking extremely confused, but at the same time you can see a small smile on her face.  

“I’m sorry Mr Holmes; she heard you talking and wanted to come downstairs.” The nurse says, linking her arm with Ellie and walking her towards the table.

“It’s not a problem, Miss …”

“My names Melinda Mr Holmes, and you know Ellie …” The nurse smiles fondly at the teenager, so sits in a stool near you and Sherlock. She looks thrilled, and you can’t blame her.

“Hello again.” You say, sitting down next to her and smiling when she reaches out and holds your hand.

“Brother?” She says shyly, sounding much like she did when you had first met her. You smile reassuringly, before giving her hand a quick squeeze.

“He’s ok, and will be very happy to know that his big sister was looking out for him.”

Before you even have time to realise you is happening, the girl leaps from her seat and throws her arms around you, nearly knocking you to the floor. You laugh, before reciprocating the hug and trying not to topple over as you do so. You hear Sherlock begin talking to the nurse, walking over towards her and explaining what had happened. Melinda however, hardly seems to be paying attention to him, and is instead watching you and Ellie with a huge smile on her face.

 

Mr and Mrs Ferguson arrive back at their home with their baby son around 2am. Their daughter Ellie had gone to bed the hour prior, with the promise from yourself that you will play Monopoly with her another time. You definitely meant it as well, with the look on Sherlock’s face when the girl bankrupted him being enough to guarantee another visit.

After the couple had put their son to bed and said goodnight to Ellie’s nurse, they came to sit in the living room with yourself and Sherlock. You were more worried about what the detective was going to say than how they were going to take it.

“Our son?” Mr Ferguson face begins to grow pale, and you almost make a mad dash to the kitchen to get him some water.

“Yes, we believe that Mark has been feeding his baby brother foods that contain high levels of Ricin.”

“How could this happen!” Mrs Ferguson exclaims, and you wince involuntarily at the raised voice. “If it’s just food …”

“That is meant to be consumed by adults and older children with a much higher metabolism.” Sherlock continues, and the couple pass a look between them.

“We don’t think Mark did anything on purpose.”  You put in, keeping your voice deliberately quiet. “His cookery class obviously taught him how to make certain things with Castor Oil, and he went a bit overboard …”

Mrs Ferguson glares at you furiously, but luckily you are saved from being pounced on when Sherlock speaks again.

“Obviously this wasn’t a deliberate attempt to poison his brother.”

“This is our fault, we should have kept an eye on him! On them both!”

Neither you or Sherlock argue any differently to Mrs Fergusons statement. After all, a little time with their son and they would have seen what was going on. Not to mention talking to their daughter …

“Yes well, we should be heading out.” Sherlock says calmly, standing up and you follow suit. “I suggest that you lock away any food items containing Castor, as that is where your son managed to get the Ricin.”

Mr Ferguson stands up, and shakes Sherlock’s hand vigorously. “Thank you Mr Holmes. Not only have you saved my son, but my daughter as well!”

You wait for Sherlock to comment, but he doesn’t, just reciprocates the handshake quickly before moving and collecting his duffle bag and your backpack where it rested next to him on the sofa.

The Ferguson’s walk you to the door, with the promise of substantial payment and that they will keep a close eye on their family. You bid the two a farewell, before walking out with Sherlock and hoping that the man will want to find somewhere to sleep as much as you do.

“B&B? There is a fantastic little one down the road apparently …” The detective says casually, and you manage to refrain from hugging him in the middle of the street.

It had been a long day and a strange case, but you had enjoyed seeing Sherlock work. It wasn’t a murder, or even a missing person. It was an issue around a family, not of international importance, but Sherlock still managed to help them. And more than that, Sherlock  _had_ helped them. The man who usually works for governments and rich clients had travelled all the way to Sussex to help a confused teenager and a baby boy. Huh, you think as Sherlock walks over to the desk of the B&B to check you in, the man does have a heart, even if he argues otherwise.  

You arrive back in London the next evening. After the dramatic events of the case, and the fact that you hadn’t travelled for a long time, you were exhausted. Sherlock on the other hand was positively giddy.

“I need to see Lestrade.” He says simply as you both sat in the back of a taxi heading to Baker Street from the train station.

“Ok.” You reply, wondering how much sleep, if any, you were going to get tonight.

“You can stay at Baker Street. Won’t be needed …” The man trails off.

You smile to yourself at the statement, thinking that that will be as close to ‘have a night in and get some rest’ as you were going to get from the detective.

“You don’t mind that I’m going to be alone?”

“Of course not, why would I care. Just …”

“Don’t touch the cultures in the fridge. I know.” You recite, sounding very much like an annoyed teenager.

“Well, I was going to say don’t  _eat_ the cultures in the fridge. But you’ve already done that …”

You glare at Sherlock Holmes, and the detective actually looks amused. Of course, you think, the onetime Sherlock develops a sense of humour is when you nearly manage to poison yourself. Typical …

 

You stand stock still, listening intently for any voices. Sherlock wouldn’t be back so soon, and Mrs Hudson would have announced herself. It could be John, you think, but you doubt the man would just walk into the living room without saying anything. You were living with Sherlock Holmes, you remind yourself. The man had enemies, you knew that well. In that moment you suddenly

You look around the small bathroom for something, anything you could use as some sort of weapon. The toilet brush? No you think, that would just amuse an intruder more than frighten them. The nail scissors? Perfect, you think as you reach into the medicine cabinet and pull them out as quietly as possible. You nearly drop them in shock when you spot a box of condoms next to the toothpaste, but quickly decide not to dwell on  _that_ too much.

Anything noise comes from the living room, and this time you recognise that someone is moving things around on the desk. That settles it immediately you decide. Mrs Hudson doesn’t touch any of Sherlock’s paperwork, John wouldn’t be so nosey whilst his friend was away, and Sherlock’s other friends like Molly or Lestrade were both working today. This was an intruder …

You creep out of the bathroom as quietly as you can, leaving the door open in case you need to bolt back in. A quick glance in the living room doesn’t show anyone, but you still hear some noises. You walk through the kitchen slowly, pausing for a moment to think about choosing a better weapon, before the rummaging noises stop suddenly, and you freeze. Your back is facing the kitchen, and you are barely in the living room. You don’t see anyone, but swore you could hear …

“Evening.”

A smooth British voice comes from behind you, startling you. You turn around quickly, holding up your small scissors as if they could defend you from anything. Only to be greeted with a tired yet slightly amused looking Holmes.

“Mycroft …” You sigh, relieved.

The man looks down at your hands, and you follow his gaze to the tiny silver scissors. Embarrassed you blush, and quickly move to hide them behind your back.

“I see living with my dear brother  _does_ in fact teach one something.” Mycroft murmurs, before walking over to Sherlock’s desk and resuming his rummaging. You notice that the paperwork doesn’t look like it has been moved, but then again; this is Mycroft you are dealing with.

“You scared me.” You say simply, putting your weapon of choice into your baggy shorts pocket and trying to pretend you didn’t just threaten one of the most powerful men in Britain with a pair of nail scissors.

“So I gathered.” Mycroft says with his back to you, and you hear the amusement in his voice.

“I didn’t know you had a key.” Mycroft turns then, raising his eyebrow in a way that is eerily similar to his younger brother. “Of course, never mind …” You say, shaking your head and still standing awkwardly halfway in the living room and kitchen.

“And where is Sherlock? I didn’t think he would leave you here alone …”

“I’m not going to steal anything” You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth. Mycroft turns smoothly, placing his umbrella on the floor and using it almost like a walking stick.

“I was referring to the incident that occurred on your previous case.” The man replies and you frown, which of course highlights exactly what Mycroft was referring to. You try not to wince as your head wound throbs.

“How do you know about that?” You ask, although again you wondered why you bothered. Mycroft knew everything. “Right, never mind.” You walk towards the kitchen, intent on putting the kettle on. You had never seen Mycroft eat or drink, but he was a British gentleman. Surely he drank tea. “He’s at Scotland Yard, talking to Lestrade I think. Tea?”

“Please.” Mycroft walks over to Sherlock’s chair, and places himself into it gracefully. You hoped you weren’t going to spill or slurp your tea …

“He should be back soon.” You say, trying to fill the silence that had descended over the flat. The kettle finishes boiling, and you begin to sort the tea.

“And how are you dealing with being Sherlock’s new John Watson?”

“I’m enjoying it.” You reply earnestly, not encouraging Mycroft’s sarcasm. “Your brother is brilliant at what he does.”

“Any newspaper could tell you that my dear.”

“No, it’s different seeing him up close. Actually  _seeing_  him work. It’s awesome.” You place down a cup of tea and hot water next to Mycroft on the table, as well as a small pot of milk and the sugar bowl. Mrs Hudson would be proud you think. You sit opposite Mycroft in John’s chair, and are surprised when you look up to notice that the man was staring at you intently. “What?”

“How long do you think you will be staying at Baker Street?”

You gulp, feeling slightly unnerved by the man’s sudden change of mood.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you and Sherlock spoken about this arrangement? Properly I mean.”

You shift around in the chair uncomfortably, Mycroft still gazing at you, waiting for an answer.

“No.” You say quietly, before reaching over and picking up your tea.

“And what are you going to do after he asks you to leave, which he will …”

The man trails off. You can’t tell if this is him asking you because he is concerned, worried or just interested. He is giving nothing away, and not for the first time, you feel like you are seeing working Mycroft. Dangerous Mycroft.

“Is this an interrogation?” You ask quietly, suddenly feeling the urge to run into the bathroom and lock yourself in like you had originally planned.

“No.” The man says, sounding much like his normal self. He leans back in his chair, and suddenly looks extremely bored.  “If it was, you would know about it.”

Your eyes widen at the statement, but Mycroft doesn’t even look at you. He just twirls his umbrella that was resting on the floor, appearing fed up and like this whole conversation was beneath him. You wait for him to speak again, but when he doesn’t you sit forward, attempting to look serious. Well as serious as you could be whilst wearing men’s shorts and an ACDC t-shirt that was older than you were.

“I like your brother Mycroft, and I like helping him.” It is completely true, and you would think obvious, but you can’t help but feel surprised at the way that Mycroft suddenly smiles, and shoots up out of his chair.

“Thank you for the tea. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.” The man says before sweeping out of the room and marching loudly down the stairs.

 

Mr Hudson had mentioned exactly 6 times in the 5 days you had been at 221B Baker Street, that the fact that an intelligent grown man like Sherlock Holmes couldn’t cook his own dinner was ridiculous. And yet here she was on a Wednesday evening, bent over the stove in the kitchen making spaghetti. Which judging by the smell that was radiating into the living room where you sat, was going to be delicious.

She had come up an hour prior with a bag of shopping, and tutted when you told her that Sherlock had gone out and you had no idea when he was going to be back. You had your trusty mobile that the detective had given you when you had first met, so were waiting for a text that would either say ‘on my way back’ or ‘come and help me do something ridiculously tiring’. Your money was on the latter.

You were still finding it difficult to get used to living at Baker Street. Not only were you staying somewhere with your own bedroom, and a kitchen that contained food (edible food thanks to Mrs Hudson) who were living with the famous detective. A man that when you had first met used to recognise you from the smell and had kindly informed you that he would of course find your next of kin should you die or become injured. That is of course, unless he forgets. Now Sherlock Holmes was taking you on his cases, trusting you to stay in his flat unsupervised, and had even insisted that he teach you his skills. He had also asked to teach you how to play some games, but you assumed that that idea was now out the window. What with the Cluedo board  _literally_ been thrown out the window.

Some loud steps on the stair case pull you out of your daydream, and a cheerful Sherlock steps into the kitchen to greet Mrs Hudson. After teasing her about food poisoning, which you no longer found funny at all, he came into the living room and all but threw himself into his chair.  

“You’re back.” You say as a greeting, sitting up on the sofa across the room and rubbing your eyes. You had almost fell asleep …

“You’re stating the obvious.” Sherlock replies in his typical monotone voice. He pauses for a second, before suddenly rolling his eyes, and looking at you in exasperation. “What did Mycroft want?”

“How …” You stammer, wondering what on earth Sherlock had seen to make him suddenly realise that his brother had visited. After all, Mycroft had meticulously placed back everything on the table after he had moved it.

“So, what did he want?” Sherlock asks again, clearly frustrated at being bothered by his big brother.

“Honestly …” You say, looking over at the where his tea still sat on the table, completely untouched. So that’s who he knew, you think. Sherlock widens his eyes, waiting for you to respond “I have no idea.” You reply, just as Mrs Hudson announces that dinner is served.

Sherlock shoots up from his seat and dashes to the kitchen and you suddenly feel very … domestic. Mrs Hudson tells you to hurry, as Sherlock will have devoured everything if you don’t move. Laughing, you stand and make your way to the kitchen, collecting Mycroft’s cold tea as you do.


	4. The Single Cyclist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Arthur Conan Doyle – The Solidarity Cyclist
> 
> Sherlock is approached by a music teacher who is being stalked by a strange figure on her daily journey to her employer in Brighton.
> 
> A simple case for Sherlock completely baffles you, and so you are sent alone to prove to the detective that you could be a reliable member of his team. Meanwhile back in London, tragedy strikes The Network.

It was 9pm on a Saturday evening, at you were sat on your unmade bed in Baker Street, holding an single photograph and crying gently. It wasn’t an old picture, and had only been taking a few weeks ago. A student photographer had approached you and your small group and asked if he could take some pictures. He claimed that he wanted to show ‘the real London’ and promised to pay you all £10 each if you agreed. You, David and Wiggins had jumped at the chance, whereas some of the older members of the group had to be coaxed into it. You still remember fondly how the oldest, Bill, grumpily moaned throughout the entire process, before criticising the fact that the photographer was using terrible lighting. You had all laughed, and that’s when the young man had snapped the picture. Wiggins had insisted on seeing it, but the student, probably reluctant to let a homeless ex drug addict near his camera, promised to go and print out a copy. You all had rolled your eyes, not expecting to ever see the man again. After all, he had his picture and you had your money. You didn’t need anything else, and the man wasn’t going to gain anything else by trying to find you again. But he did come back, sometime around midnight, and he had quietly handed you the picture along with a £20 note. The next morning you had excitedly showed everyone the picture, who all unanimously agreed that you should keep it.

“When you are quite finished reminiscing, we have a client.”

You nearly drop the picture in shock, and turn to look at Sherlock who stood in your doorway wearing an expression that clearly wasn’t one of amusement. After all, he had brought you here to work, not to eat all his food and drink all his tea.

“Sorry,” you mutter, carefully placing the photo back into the front pocket of your rucksack. “You weren’t …”

“Screaming your name for twenty minutes? No, of course not …” Sherlock replies sarcastically, before turning and marching down the stair case to the living room.

You take a few moments to smooth down your hair and clothes. You hoped that your eyes weren’t too red. You didn’t want anyone to know you had been crying; especially Sherlock. Then again, you think as you walk down the wooden stairs, he probably already knew that.

A young lady was sat on the sofa as you enter the room. She was stunning, with perfect skin and medium length blonde hair tied into a ponytail at the back of her head. Sherlock just walks straight past her and over to his chair without a backward glance, and you wondered if he thought she was attractive? Stopping that train of thought  _immediately_ you step over towards John’s seat, and flop yourself down into it. The young woman sends you a kind smile, which you reciprocate. You hoped it wasn’t a smile of pity, although you had become pretty decent at spotting the difference. You take the time that Sherlock uses to offer the woman some tea to really look at her.

She was wearing a beautiful tan trench coat; with leggings and the bottom of a pale blue dress just peeking out underneath. You noticed that she was wearing bright white and orange trainers, and thought it was odd. It didn’t go with the rest of the outfit at all, and you wondered whether they were a pair of shoes the woman had as a spare. Maybe her shoes had broken, or had hurt her feet. Or maybe she had changed them to run here. But why?

“No, thank you Mr Holmes. I’m fine.” The woman declines politely.

Her voice was quiet and contained, and you would never have assumed that given what she looked like. You mentally chastise yourself for making assumptions, and watch as Sherlock leans forward, no doubt making some hard deductions.

“So Miss Violet Smith …”

“Yes. I know strange name,” The woman says with a smile, “But my parents are … were, very traditional.”

Ok, dead parents. There’s one deduction in the bag. Judging by Sherlock’s face, he caught that as well. You reach into to your pocket for your trusty notepad, and begin to jot things down.

“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday evening, but it is urgent.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock says, clapping his hands together and leaning back into his chair. You could almost hear his inner monologue screaming, ‘get to the point!’

“I’ve come straight from work you see. Haven’t had time to change …” She gestures to her clothes, and you smile to yourself. That explains the shoes.

“And this workplace is in the country no doubt, just outside of London judging by your complexion …”

Miss Smith nods, before frowning “How did you …”

“You’re a music teacher, private, for a single pupil in Brighton. You live and were taught in London, at the Royal Academy of Music. You travel to Brighton on the train and bicycle the last few miles to your place of work.”

“That’s a long way to travel every day …” You reply, and Violet nods in your direction, although she is mostly still gazing at Sherlock questioningly.

“It is worth it. The employer is vastly wealthy and Miss Smith has her own room at the house that she can use when needed.”

“How did you know all that?” The woman asks, and you are relieved to see that she doesn’t seem to be offended by all of Sherlock’s little deductions.

You know now would be the time that John Watson would say something along the lines of ‘don’t show off’ as Sherlock was about to explain how he made all of his deductions. You just stay quiet, waiting for the inevitable.

“There are calluses on your ring and forefinger that show you play a stringed instrument, probably classical guitar. However, the length and prominent muscles of your fingers show that you are also a piano player. You play more than one instrument, are well spoken and educated, so it would be a natural assumption that you were educated at the Royal Academy. Your clothes are brand new and expensive, but you didn’t really care about the sofa being slightly dusty when you sat down. Therefore, you’re not worried about getting them dirtied. You have a lot of money, but it’s not what you care about. You’re doing this for the music.”

“And the biking? And working in Brighton?”

“You have changed into trainers from the train station, and each have scuff marks along the edges present after being rubbed along pedals repeatedly. You travel to a beachside location within around an hour travelling time from London, but yet your employer is still in the countryside. Brighton was the obvious choice.”

“I didn’t say anything about working by the beach …” The woman says with a smile.

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, and smiles a smug smile. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his expression.

“The ice cream stain …”

You notice the small stain on the front of the woman’s designer coat. It’s plain so must have been vanilla, you think. But there’s a smudge of something else. A chocolate flake? She must have eaten it in a hurry. A well-mannered woman wouldn’t drip ice cream all over herself and then leave it there. She probably had to rush to catch her train you think, and wonder if you should write that down.

“There’s ice cream in London.” Miss Smith says, clearly enjoying herself. It was nice to see someone who didn’t think Sherlock was just playing a stupid trick.

“Highly less likely to be from the city than the coast. And it’s not that old. If that was from London, you would have washed the coat. But it’s a new stain, and clearly made today when you no doubt stopped for an ice cream before returning home on the evening train.”

“Ergo, you work near a beach because of the ice cream stain. You bicycle as we can see by your shoes, and you work in the country because of your complexion.” You finish, and Sherlock gives you a curt nod in acknowledgement.

“Excellent, that’s an amazing trick!” And there it is …

Sherlock hides his annoyance well, and just seems to snap back into professional detective mode.

“So Miss Smith, what can we do for you?”

“Well, I believe I may have a stalker. I can’t prove anything, but I am definitely being followed Mr Holmes; by a strange figure. A man I think …”

“Miss Smith if you don’t mind me asking, how much does your employer pay for a private music teacher a year?

Miss Smith looks confused at the sudden question, before answering “£100’000.”

You mouth falls open in shock and you don’t make any attempt to hide it. That is an obscene amount of money! You write it down on your notepad, along with a little shocked face, and a few dollar signs.

“I see. So do you think this man, this ‘figure’ means to rob you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Violet shifts in her chair, and you note the way she is sat. Her legs are crossed and her back is straight. She must have been to a posh school, you think. “Every day for the past three weeks it has been the same. I get off the train, ride through the town centre to up on the coastal path. My employer’s house is a huge old manor house, so the road up to it is long…”

“Is that the only house along that road?”

“Yes.” Sherlock waves a hand in your general direction, and you write that down. “Well, at first I thought it was strange, because that’s the only place he could be going. I didn’t recognise him though, and I didn’t know anything about anyone else visiting. When I turned to look at the man, I noticed that he was wearing a huge hat and scarf …”

“It is winter.” You supply, but Miss Smith just shakes her head.

“He was wrapped up too much; he would have been boiling, what with riding up that road. It’s pretty steep.” She continues, and Sherlock continues to just sit quietly and listen. “Anyway, he was also wearing a pair of sunglasses; I thought that was strange …”

You look down at the notes that you had made so far. Strange figure, riding a bike, hat scarf and sunglasses, must be fit, possibly trying to rob …

“Was there anything else you noticed?”

“Well, yesterday I just lost it. I was having a bad morning, and he was there again. I stopped, ready to get off my bike and confront him, but he stopped as well. Then I turned my bike about to ride towards him and talk to him, but he turned his bike around and rode in the opposite direction.”

“Go on …” Sherlock prompts, as you continue to take notes.

“Well, I thought he had gone back to town, so I turned around to ride to work. When I was nearly there, he was there again. So I sped up, trying to get to the house quicker. When I got there, the man had completely disappeared.”

“There are no side roads? No other way he could have ridden?”

“No Mr Holmes. There are no walkways or anything on that road because it’s private property.”

“Could he have just walked off into the tree line or something?” You ask, just as Sherlock stands and begins to pace the room.

“No not with a bike. And not so quickly, I would have heard or seen something.”

“This definitely needs to be investigated.” Sherlock says, and you assume that the strangeness of the disappearance has attracted him more than the young woman who is potentially in danger.

“So, you’ll come down to Brighton? I am working tomorrow.”

“My assistant will go with you.”

You don’t immediately take note of what Sherlock just said, as you busily are flicking through your note book. It’s only when you feel Violet looking at you that you suddenly realise what Sherlock just said. He wanted you to work on a case, alone?

“Your assistant?” Miss Smith asks, clearly confused as to why the detective wasn’t going to be investigating the incident himself.

“Hi.” You say, with an awkward wave in Violet’s direction.

“Oh, of course. “ The young woman says with an apologetic smile, before turning back to the still pacing detective. “So I will see you tomorrow then?”

“I guess so …” You say quietly, looking over to Sherlock for confirmation. You wanted to sound like the professional investigator, but at the moment you were to flummoxed by Sherlock to bother.

“Yes you will Miss Smith.” Sherlock says with un characteristic smile.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson comes bounding up the stairs. She smiles at you quickly, and you send one back as a greeting.

“Sherlock, you have a visitor …”

The detective frowns, clearly not expecting anyone. It wouldn’t be another client either. The way Mrs Hudson had said ‘visitor’ made it sound like …

“Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs, before turning to Miss Smith. “My assistant will meet you tomorrow morning.” It is ultimately a dismissal, and so Violet says her thank you’s and farewells before leaving the room with Mrs Hudson in tow.

Mycroft enters the room, and watches his brother as he begins to gather some spare sheets of paper. He holds out a hand in your direction, and you wordlessly hand him your notebook. You hope he doesn’t see or comment on your little doodles. Mycroft says your name fondly, and you turn to smile at him.

“Morning. Would you like some tea?”

“No. Thank you. Actually I have come to talk to my dear brother …” Sherlock doesn’t look up from what he is doing. You look over his shoulder to see that he is drawing a map of what looks like Miss Smith’s route to work. “It is urgent Sherlock …” Mycroft continues, but Sherlock still doesn’t reply.

“Is this about yesterday?” Two, almost identical looks of confusion pass towards you, and you flush. “Sorry, I meant when you came to see Sherlock last night.”

“Actually no, that has nothing to do with this.”

Sherlock scowls at his brother, and you wonder still what Mycroft really wanted when he came to see you last night. He must have known Sherlock wouldn’t be in. He always knew everything when it came to his younger brother.

You move out of the way of the two men as they lean around the table where Sherlock had been working. Standing awkwardly behind them, you watch as Mycroft begins talking in a hush tone, before stopping to turn towards you.

“Would you mind giving us a moment alone?”

“Of course.” You stop for a few moments, waiting for Sherlock say something in response. He just continues leaning over the table, and you smile shyly at his brother before heading upstairs. “I’m going to go pack …”

The next morning you rise early, excited and yet nervous at the task ahead of you. Sherlock trusted you to travel to Brighton without him and collect information for his latest case. It was a big deal, and you wondered if maybe Sherlock had something else that he was working on, hence why he would send you in his stead.

In the short time you had been working with the detective, you had noticed that the man seemed to take cases from a variety of people. There was no common pattern, and no common case. Of course, any ‘big’ case would be handled by the detective and John, and you were there to assist Sherlock day to day. But still, it surprised you immensely that Sherlock was accepting random cases, as you thought that the detective was rather more suited to international issues rather than a young woman and her stalker.

Walking downstairs, you spot a small piece of paper on the table that simply reads ‘Taxi and ticket. SH’. You pick up the small paper and behind it sits what appears to be a train ticket as well as a £20 note. Grabbing both the note and the ticket, you slide it into your pocket before quietly walking down the stairs so as to not wake Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. It was 7am, and you pondered whether the detective was finally getting some much needed sleep.

Stepping out of the building, you ignored some of the taxis that were idling down on the main road. Sherlock had kindly given you some money for the taxi, but as you usually did, you pocketed the money and walked to the station. It wasn’t far, and it was a lovely morning despite the cold. Bill desperately needed a new pair of shoes, and were saving to help get him and the other elder in your group a Hostel room over Christmas. It would be your gift to them, as well as getting them out of the freezing cold.

You arrive at the train station, and suddenly feel very anxious. The last time you had been here, you had been in the company of the great Sherlock Holmes. He knew where he was going and what to do, whereas you simply just tagged along and hoped desperately that one of the security guards wouldn’t chuck you out of the station. Luckily, you spot a few people who were loudly talking about the beach. You assumed they were going the same place as you, and breathe a sigh of relief when you see the group board the morning train to Brighton. You stand towards the back of the carriage, keeping the seats in front of you free for the elderly people that had become to clamber onto the train. You tried to ignore the looks some of the young people were giving you, and instead just pulled your coat tighter around yourself, and began to ponder the case and your new client. Miss Violet Smith.

You spot Miss Smith stood near the exit of the train station in Brighton. She is still as stunning as you remembered, with her sleek blonde hair and clear skin. A smart black rucksack rested on her back, and she was wearing her sports trainers. She seemed to be in a good mood, but you still approached her nervously.

“Morning.” You say casually, and Miss Smith turns and beams at you happily.

“Oh thank god, I thought maybe you weren’t coming!” She wheels her bike down the pavement, and you slowly walk alongside her.

“Don’t worry, I’m here now and Sherlock’s back in London working on the case.”

Violet doesn’t seem to be bothered by the lack of Sherlock’s presence, but instead her mind seems elsewhere.

“Ok …”

You both walk silently for a few minutes, heading out of the main town centre and up into the countryside. You don’t find the silence awkward, and instead use the time to admire the beautiful view. Brighton was a place that you had heard of often, but never visited. You wondered somewhat randomly whether or Sherlock knew that. After a few more minutes, you arrive outside town, with the road forking off in different directions.

“Do what you usually do, take as long as you need in town. I’m going to be up on the path to the house. I’ll watch in the treeline.” You say to Violet, who nods, before beginning to mount her bike.

“What if he sees you?” She asks, showing some concern which you find sweet.

“He won’t.” You reply adamantly. Miss Smith looks please with your confidence, and smiles.

 “Ok. I’ll be coming back to London tonight. So I’ll see you and Mr Holmes at Baker Street after I finish work.”

“Perfect.” You wave quickly as the woman bikes away, heading back into town.

 

You stand hidden in the treeline for exactly an hour before you spot Miss Smith come biking up the lane to her employer’s house. You had walked up and down the road before she had arrived, and only noticed one place of interest. An old house sat halfway up the long lane, but it was completely boarded up. The gateway in front of it was padlocked and chained, so there was no way someone could manage to get through, and especially not someone with a bike. Violet looks around as she cycles, and you wonder whether the woman was trying to spot you. You smile when you rides straight past you, relieved and pleased that you had hidden yourself. Suddenly, another bike rides past, too quickly for you to get a good look. Just as the bike was about to turn a corner, it stops suddenly. You watch closely as the bearded rider spins the bike around, and rides in the opposite direction. He rides past you quickly, and a few moments later, Miss Smith passes you. She had turned around, and so had he. It was odd. Very odd. Violet stops near you, looking confused. You manage to hear her sigh, before she spins the bike around again, and rides back up the lane towards her destination. As before, the man follows her. Just before he passes you, you step out into the road, trying to appear like a random walker who happened to be lost on a walk. The man comes to a screeching halt in front of you, but before you have time to speak, he turns and rides manically in the opposite direction. You run to follow him, but cannot catch up. You see him turn the bend in the lane, and he disappears from your line of vision. When you round the corner, the man and his bike had vanished. The treeline was dense, and there was no way he could have hidden like you had. Sighing, you slowly make your way back into down, intent on going back to London and sharing your odd encounter with Sherlock. Hopefully, he could provide some answers.

 

The train back from Brighton was almost completely empty. It was lunchtime, and you tried to close your eyes and sleep, rather than think about how hungry you were. The journey was quick, only around an hour or so. The day was cloudy and miserable, otherwise you would have stopped and walked near the beach for a while. Sherlock wouldn’t really mind you be an extra hour you think. You could have got an ice cream, or even gone for a swim in the sea. The weather had other ideas though, and as soon as you had taken one step towards the beachfront from the train station, the cloud had descended and the freezing cold wind had almost swept you over.

You made a promise to yourself that you would take some of your friends to Brighton one day. Sherlock and his work meant that you had extra cash, and you didn’t need to spend it on Hostel’s. You had a bed to sleep in, at least for a while, so you could afford to treat the people who had become your family. Bill would love the beach, you thought, just as the train pulled into the smog and cold of London. He would be grateful to get out of the city, he always moaned about pollution.

Stepping out onto the platform, you think you notice someone stood watching you. You continue walking to the exit, excited to share the information you had discovered today for the case with Sherlock. When you look over your shoulder, the figure has disappeared.

“Great.” You mutter to yourself angrily. “Now I’m being followed …”

 

You immediately know that Sherlock is not alone when you enter Baker Street. You can hear Mrs Hudson messing around in the kitchen, no doubt cleaning, and the detective talking to someone else. Judging by the polite nature of his speech, you assume it is John. You smile to Mrs Hudson who stands over the kitchen sink cleaning, before hanging up your coat and dropping your bag on the floor. You planned on heading out to see your friends, and didn’t want to lose sight of the bag that now contained a huge amount of cash for them. You hoped they would accept the money, especially as the weather was getting even colder.

“Hello” John greets from his chair, and you flop down on the sofa, your travels and early morning exhausted you more than usual. “Productive day?” The man smirks at your expression, and you note that Sherlock was sat at the table, working away on his laptop.

“So?” Sherlock doesn’t ask anything else, and you sit up slowly and stretch.

“I stood by the treeline and watched him pass. Miss Smith’s definitely right, he was following her.”

“Yes, thank you for that masterful deduction.” The detective responds snidely, and you manage not to stick your tongue out at him.

“What’s got you in such a bad mood all of a sudden?” John asks, and you don’t need to see Sherlock’s face to know that the man is scowling.

Mycroft, you think, the image of the two men discussing something last night popping into your head. No doubt it had been important; they had been talking well into early morning.

“Age? Ethnicity? Any useful observation at all …” Sherlock asks you, still tapping away furiously at his laptop.

“I couldn’t really see him that well …”

“Yes well, that is understandable considering you were stood in completely the wrong place.”

“What?” You hadn’t explicitly told Sherlock where you had stood, but had assumed that standing hidden by the side of the road was a perfect place to watch Miss Smith and her so called stalker.

“There, a pathway up to a different estate. It’s closed off now. The house is being sold by a local estate agent …” Sherlock spins his laptop towards you to show you a map, but it is so blurry that you sigh and stand to go and get a closer look.

“Do you need glasses?” John asks, still sat in his seat by the fire.

“Shut up …” You mumble, not in the mood for Sherlock or Johns trademark sass.

“No, I’m actually serious. I think you need glasses.” John says again, and you hear him shift in his chair, leaning forward to watch you as you look at the map.

“Well, I’ve never had an eye test or anything so …”

“Hardly a worthy excuse.” Sherlock mutters, obviously referring to the fact that you hadn’t managed to see much of the stalker.

“It’s not an excuse Sherlock.” You reply with a sigh. You stand back from the laptop, and the detective flips it back towards himself. “I’m sorry that I stood in the wrong place.”

“Apologises don’t have any credence in detective work.”

“I didn’t do …  _that_  badly.” Sherlock remains quiet, and you hear John sigh. “Did I?”

“The private footpath that was closed to the public in 2002 …” Sherlock points to the estate near Miss Smith’s workplace, with a tiny road leading off in the direction of the main decrepit hall. The man was right, you had noticed the gateway and path, but it was completely closed off and looked ancient.

“You think that’s where the man is heading?” You ask, walking back over to the sofa.

Sherlock frowns, obviously wondering why you hadn’t noticed it before. “Of course.”

“But he has a bike Sherlock, it’s not just him.” John tries to reason, but the detective just ignores the comment.

“I saw that bike Sherlock, it was huge; must’ve been really heavy to carry.”

“Well consider the fact that you  _saw_ it to be a victory.”

You stand up quickly before your brain says anything snide in response. Walking into the kitchen you begin to bash around loudly, attempting to make a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson sends you a look akin to pity, and you manage to smile back at the woman in response.

“Sherlock …” You hear John chastise his friend, walking towards where he sat on his laptop.

“What?”

“She’s upset …”

“No John, she’s frustrated.” You purposely slam the fridge door shut loudly. Surely Sherlock knows you can hear him perfectly well, despite the man whispering. “She’s frustrated that she couldn’t bring me any information that I didn’t already know.”

“So, I suppose that means you know something we don’t.” You mutter, walking back into the living room and placing a cup of tea in John Watson’s hands. He looks surprised at your action, but even more so when you place the second cup next to Sherlock.

“Exactly.”

 

“What did Mycroft say to you, that night he came and I wasn’t here?”

Sherlock continues the annoying tapping rhythm on his keyboard, and you close your eyes tighter to try and distract yourself from the constant noise. You shift around where you sat leant back on the sofa. John had left to check on his wife, and Mrs Hudson had managed to escape and had retreated downstairs. It was just you and the detective, sitting into the living room and working on Miss Smith’s case.

“Honestly, nothing really” You say, rubbing your eyes “I thought he wanted to talk to you but he didn’t.”

“Did he ask you anything? That is, before you threatened him with a pair of nail scissors.”

At that, your eyes shoot open, and you quickly sit up to gaze at Sherlock. The detective looks amused you note, but even that isn’t enough to stop your mortification.

“He told you?!”

“Of course.” Sherlock says simply, and you groan, leaning your head into your hands “It’s not every day that someone accosts him with manicure implements.”

“I didn’t ‘accost’ him.” You retort, putting on a ridiculous accent when you say ‘accost’ and that just appears to amuse Sherlock even more. “He just startled me.”

The tapping stops suddenly, and you are relieved with the blissful silence.  

“Are you alright?”

You look up from your hands, surprised to see that Sherlock is frowning at you, appearing to look … concerned. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“Yes, blame John and Mrs Hudson. There the ones who take an active interest in your wellbeing.” He resumes his typing, and you lean back in the sofa. You weren’t going to be alright if he kept up that noise all night.

“And yet you’re the one I’m staying with …” You reply with a smirk.

 “How did Miss Smith seem to you?” You roll your eyes at Sherlock’s attempt to change the conversation, but don’t comment on it.

“Fine.”

“I’m going to need a little bit more data than that.”

“She was fine Sherlock. Not stressed or worried. She was happy that I turned up.”

A short burst of knocking comes from downstairs, and you hear Sherlock snap his laptop closed. Mrs Hudson’s voice rises into the living room, and you hear Miss Smith thank her as she begins to ascend the staircase.

“Well I guess I’ll see for myself then.” Sherlock says, moving to stand by the fireplace and buttoning up his jacket. Always a drama queen you muse, before sitting up and attempting to look presentable. After all, you were the assistant of the great Sherlock Holmes. You had a reputation to keep.

“Well I’m famished …” You say into the silent room.

Miss Violet Smith had left an hour ago, and the detective had sat silently in his chair since her departure, no doubt musing over the new information he had been given. Miss Smith was engaged, and planning on moving away with her fiancée, due to her also been left a huge amount of money in her Uncles will. It was still unclear who was following her, as there were at least two possible men. Miss Smith however, ensured both you and Sherlock that her employer wouldn’t follow her. Then there was her employer’s friend, who had stayed at the house with them a month ago. He had tried to kiss Violet, and had been kicked out by his friend. He had the right motive, but according to Miss Smith, the man was an unfit idiot, not capable of following her and definitely not able to be so stealthy.

So you were back to square one. With no concrete evidence that Violet was being followed, you couldn’t get the police involved. Plus you didn’t even know who it was. Sherlock was clearly busy working. But you were too hungry to even try and concentrate.

“Do you want anything?”

“No.” Sherlock says, and you look up to watch as he begins to furiously tap away on his phone. Texting again you think.

“How’s John? And Mary?” You ask, wondering about the impending parents. Sherlock continues typing, and doesn’t seem to be in the mood for conversation. Although you honestly couldn’t think of a time when he was; unless of course, it was about a case.

“Working and pregnant.” The detective answers, still not looking in your direction.

“Poor John, having to work whilst pregnant …” Sherlock just scowls at your attempt at humour, and you clear your voice awkwardly. “Ok, I’ll be back soon.” You gather up your bag, and walk out of the flat, wondering where you could find a nice sandwich at 6oclock at night. Then you remember a lovely café nearby, and silently thank Sherlock and John for choosing a flat so close to the best bacon sandwich in London.

You walk out of Speedy’s with a smile on your face. The owner was a lovely gentleman, and you could see why Mrs Hudson had been charmed by the man. Putting your sandwich in your bag, you feel a presence from behind you. Thinking about the train station, you whip around quickly. But instead of a strange man, you are greeted by a sleek black car, leaning on the side of which is a very well dressed Mycroft Holmes.

“You scared the shit out of me!” You gasp, clutching your chest and laughing at your own reaction. You definitely needed to tell Sherlock about the man at the train station, before you became even more paranoid.

“I see working with my brother hasn’t made you any less … ‘street’” Mycroft says the word ‘street’ after a full minute of silence. Clearly he like many others had a problem with the word ‘homeless’.

You walk towards the man, nodding and trying not to laugh. “Oh yeah, I spit on the carpet and steal all the silver wear. I’m like Oliver Twist.”

“Yes well, when you’re quite finished with the sarcasm …”

“What is it?” You ask, wondering why Mycroft hadn’t made any move to go into 221B and see his little brother. The word ‘carrier pigeon’ zips into your brain, and you prepare a retort in case Mycroft asks you to give Sherlock a message. What he says however, is the last thing on earth you had expected to come out of the man’s mouth.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas eve?”

You try not to let your mouth fall open in shock, but cannot stop your confused frown that falls onto your features. “If I didn’t know any better Mycroft, I would almost say that sounded like an invitation.”

“I would very much like to talk to you, outside of Baker Street. Will you oblige me?”

You pause for a few seconds, thinking about the random offer. Mycroft had never really spoken to you unless it was important, or about a case. “Sure.” You answer after a while, feeling like you had nothing to lose by accepting.

“Excellent. Anthea will be collecting you 8pm.”

“Anthea?” You don’t remember anyone by the name, and wonder if it someone else like you who works for Sherlock.

A tapping from the car startles you, and you turn to see a blacked out window roll down slowly. With almost perfect timing, a young woman’s face appears, and she waves at you quickly before looking back down at the phone in her hands. It would seem that Mycroft’s dramatic flair even affects his staff. Looking at Anthea you suddenly feel awkward. True, you knew Mycroft well enough, but you wondered where on earth he could be taking you. Clearly it wasn’t going to be anywhere public. The man looked out of place and uncomfortable just standing by Speedy’s. You couldn’t imagine the man dressed in jeans at the local pub. John and Lestrade on the other hand …

“No need to look so alarmed.” Mycroft says suddenly, reminding you that the man was still stood there on the pavement “This won’t be an interrogation.”

You cross your arms over your chest, attempting to look serious but barely keeping your smirk hidden. “I wasn’t thinking interrogation, more like kidnapping.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, and Anthea, again perfectly timed, appears from the back seat of the car and holds the door open for her boss. The woman did all this without looking up from the device in her hands. You had to admit you were impressed.

“Give my best to my brother, and John Watson should you see him.”

“I will, thanks Mycroft.” You smile genuinely at the elder Holmes as he looks at you through the rear window of his sleek Mercedes.

“For what?” Mycroft asks perplexed, and you smile deviously at him.

“You know what …” The man rolls his eyes yet again, and you mentally high five yourself for making him do it. Annoying the Holmes brothers was the ultimate entertainment for you it would seem.

“Good evening.”

The car drives away slowly, and you watch it disappear from Baker Street, driving out into the cold night of London. You wondered where Mycroft lived. Probably in a huge house in the centre of the city, and your mind drifted to the glorious house you had seen when you had worked with Sherlock on the strange case of the Red Headed Agency.

You are grateful to get back to the flat after your little encounter. Your mind was racing, and you were eager to talk to Sherlock. However, you are immediately disappointed and slightly surprised to find the detective is not alone when you return to his flat. Two fellow members of the homeless network stand behind Sherlock, who leans over his desk and is silently staring at some documents. Hearing you come through the doorway, the two people turn and send you smiles in greeting. 

“Hi …” You say, not knowing what else to say as you had never seen them before. You wanted to say something more, but you kept quiet, not wanting to disturb there little meeting in case it was important.

“Hey, you alright?” The woman says, in a rich cockney accent. The man remains silent, and he turns to continuing looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yeah I’m good thanks.” You reply, dropping your bag by the doorway and beginning to take off your coat. “Need another hand Sherlock?” The detective doesn’t turn to look at you, but you notice his breathing change, almost as if he was waking up.

“Nope.” He says simply, before returning to his silence. You hoped the two network members hadn’t been stood in the silence for too long. You knew first-hand how amazingly awkward that was.

“Ok.” You concede, moving to go and sit on the sofa, away from the group but still in the room. After all, the detective was well known for changing his mind at the drop of a hat.

“How’s the gang?” The woman asks, and you frown questioningly at her, not knowing really who she is referring to “You’re under the Arches mostly aren’t you, with Wiggins and that lot?”

You smile at the mention of Wiggins and your friends. Although, you considered them to be more like family “Yep, that’s us.”

Suddenly, you realise what you had said and what it meant. Sure you had visited your friends, but you weren’t really  _with_ them anymore where you? You hadn’t slept out there under the Arches in nearly a week, and Sherlock had almost been acting like you had become his new roommate. You wonder how long this arrangement was meant to last, not wanting to overstay your welcome.

“They find Bill yet?”

You frown at the question, it pulling you from your own thoughts and snapping you back into the presence. You assume the woman doesn’t mean Wiggins, but that would mean …

“What?” You reply dumfounded, after all you had visited the group three days ago, and everyone was fine. You begin to feel slightly ill, and the woman must notice, as she looks concerned.

“Bill, that old guy that hangs around the …”

“Yeah I know who Bill is.” You snap, harsher than you had intended.

“Not Billy Wiggins, that guy is a fucking moron.” The elder man says, before turning to look at you with an apologetic expression. You weren’t sure if it was because of the insult or the swearing. “Sorry.”

“What happened to Bill?” You continue, eager to find out what had happened to the man you considered to be almost a surrogate father to you.

“Dunno, heard a couple of folks say he moved somewhere and no one’s seen him in a while.”

“Moved where?”

Sherlock continues to lean over the table, staying silent but you can tell from his stance and expression that he is not listening to your conversation. Cleary anything that wasn’t a case wasn’t important at the moment.

“I told you hun I dunno.” The woman continues, with a shrug and a small smile “I think he didn’t want to go by the train station when the group moved, so went into a park somewhere.”

You stand then, walking back over to where you had placed your bag and coat. Putting on the jacket quickly, you try and ignore the concerned gaze both the woman and older man where giving you. There was almost a silent connection between members of the homeless network, and not you thought, because you all worked for Sherlock. It was impossible to describe your connection to someone who didn’t come from the streets. You simply just, understood each other.

“I guess you don’t know which park …” You ask, picking up your bag and slinging it over your shoulder casually. You patted it quickly to check that the cash was still in the front pocket, and sigh relieved when you feel the small bundle of notes through the material.

“Nope, sorry.” The woman says, and the man turns to shake his head at you as well. You begin to think, where would the man go?

Sherlock raises his head and sighs, turning to his two companions around the table and fixing them with a glare.

“If you are quite finished …”

“Sherlock, I won’t be back tonight.”

You don’t wait around for a response, instead just leaving the room in a flourish and beginning to quickly descend the stair case.

“Everything alright love?” Mrs Hudson’s kind voice asks from her doorway. No doubt your descent downstairs had been louder than you thought.

“Yeah.” You reply simply, before heading out.

 

“You scared the shit out of me, I thought …”

“A young lady such as yourself shouldn’t be swearing.” Bill shifts over on his bench, making room so you can sit next to him “Not now especially.”

You frown, turning to look at the man who was wearing a amused yet smug expression. “What do you mean, especially?”

“You, working with that Holmes character. Brilliant man …” Bill shakes his head and looks off into the distance.

“You know him?” You ask surprised. Your friend hadn’t made any mention of the Network, and you hoped desperately that the old frail man hadn’t been drafted to do stupid things for Holmes.

“Oh god course not, just read about him in the paper a while back.”

“Oh.” You reply, mollified.

“He solved more murders than Scotland Yard they recon, and they say that he’s a genius.”

“I agree with the genius bit.” Bill laughs at your expression, clearly seeing the undertones of amusement.

“You friends with him?” The man asks, shifting around on the freezing cold, green mental bench.

“I don’t think so.” You reply, rubbing your ice cold noise “More like … colleagues.”

“Oh, ‘colleagues’ hey. Well  _excuse_ me …”

“Shut it.” You reply smartly, and Bill laughs again. You were always amazed by the man’s joyous attitude and humour, no matter how cold he was or how hungry. “You need to go with everyone else Bill, you’ll freeze out here …”

“I like be out in the open, I can see the stars.”

“Bill …” You try and argue back, but your face softens when you turn to see your friend gazing up into the pitch black sky, his face a mask of peace and contentment.

“That train station smells like piss and is filthy as a dump.”

You laugh loudly at Bill’s sudden change of mood, amused that he could look so peaceful and yet still be typical grumpy Bill. “Well I can’t argue with that.”

“Honestly darling, I prefer it here. It’s a nice place for me.”

You choose not to argue, remembering instead the small bundle of money in your bag. You reach down to get it, before holding it in your hands carefully. You count it quickly, conscious that you are not in the nicest area of the city, before turning and holding it out to Bill. He frowns at your closed hand, and you smile and physically put the money in the man’s freezing hand.

“Merry Christmas.”

“It’s not Christmas for another week yet my love.” Bill looks down at the cash, and doesn’t seem either worried or shocked that you have it. “What’s this …”

“Some …” You don’t even get to finish your sentence before the man rapidly shakes his head, almost as if he had suddenly made up his mind.

“Oh no, darling I couldn’t take this. This is your money.”

He tries to place the bundle of cash back into your hands, but you cross your arms defiantly, refusing to take it back. The man doesn’t give up though, and you chuckle at his futile attempts.

“That I earned, and want to give to you. Get yourself a Hostel room over Christmas.”

“Darling …” Bill sighs, looking down at the money more like it was a loaded weapon than something that could get him a hot shower and a warm bed for two weeks.

“Please Bill, for me.”

You send the man your biggest pleading puppy eyes, and it seems to work, as Bill laughs once before carefully putting the money in his torn leather jacket. “Well, I can’t say no to you can I.”

“No, you really can’t” You reply with a smile, finally uncrossing your arms and rubbing them to try and warm your body. You both sit silently for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s company, before you realise that it is only going to get colder, and you need to move. “Well come one, I’ll walk you …” You stand, turning to the man with your hand held out in his direction. Bill doesn’t move though, and despite his age, he reminds you of a stubborn toddler.

“Just one more night.” The man pleads, grasping his hands together, and you roll your eyes.

“Nope …” You wave your hand again, waiting for the man to take it so you can help him stand.

“C’mon darling, please.”

You sigh, before a neat little idea pops into your head. “Fine.” Taking off your backpack, you plop yourself down on the floor by the bench, stretching out and preparing yourself to lie down.  

“What are you doing?”

“If you are going to stay here, so will I. I don’t like some of the kids around here …” You look around the dark vacant park, and can see the streetlights illuminating the bars around the area. It looks menacing, and the sounds of laughter and glasses breaking in the distance even more so.

“You have a lovely warm room waiting for you my love. Don’t freeze out here for me …”

You lie down before the man can continue, purposely stretching out loudly and yawning just to emphasis your point. “Don’t freeze out here period …”

“Ok, I’ll walk myself to the Hostel.” Bill concedes, and you shoot up off the cold ground quickly, secretly extremely pleased that you wouldn’t be sleeping on the concrete tonight.

“Thank you!” You exclaim, helping the man gather his belongings before linking his arm and walking side by side out of the small park and back onto the roads.

“You can come and visit me, I’ll have to find something for you …”

“Bill you don’t have to do that!” You argue, knowing immediately that the man was thinking about getting you a Christmas present in return.

“Of course I do, am I not a gentleman?” The man says in an exaggerated British accent, trying to hide his cockney one, and failing miserably.

“Of course you are Bill. Alright you can get me something, but only if it’s a song.”

“You want me to write you a song?” Bill smiles openly at your comment. It had been months since you heard the man sing, and wondered if the Hostel would have a guitar or piano he could use. He had been a music teacher after all.

“Yep. And then we can play it over Christmas.”

“Ok, it’s a deal my darling.” Bill says, leaning over to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. He unloops his arm from you, and begins to walk away from you down the street.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” You ask, watching concerned as the man hobbles along the street.

“I know my way love. You go back to your detective, I can find my way.”

“He’s not  _my_ detective …” You mutter under your breath, but judging by Bills infectious laughter, he heard you.

The man suddenly begins singing ‘It Must Be Love’ as he walks away. You spin around and hold a middle finger up to what you thought would be your friends back. Instead, Bill had turned facing you, and breaks down laughing as he watches you.

“You’re not a lady!” The man shouts, crossing his arms and shaking his head in mock reproach.

“Never!” You yell back, and wave, waiting until you see Bill get onto the main road before you turn and start back to Baker Street.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you spot the red banner over Speedy’s café, indicating that you were nearly home. The park Bill had tried to call his new home was not close to Baker Street, and your feet were sore from the journey. London never truly unnerved you; living on the street for so long had hardened you in that way and made you almost immune to the fear of a dark London night. What you hated though, was the cold and the damp, so you were thrilled that Bill had accepted your many and was going to a Hostel. You still couldn’t shake this nervous feeling in your gut however, and part of your irrational brain wanted to go to the Hostel and check that he had settled in. But seeing Speedy’s and the flat quickly changed your mind, and you remember Bill chastising you for being out in the cold when you had a perfectly good place to be.

You open the door quietly, not wanting to knock and risk disturbing Mrs Hudson. The main door was never locked, and you mentally told yourself to talk to Sherlock about that. Mrs Hudson had gone missing once; and you didn’t want that to happen again.

“What did Mycroft want?” Sherlock asks, just when you reach the top of the staircase. Of course the detective wasn’t asleep, despite the late hour.

“You saw him?”

“Through the window. Couldn’t hear you though.”

You laugh, walking further into the room and enjoying the wave of warmth that reaches over you. “Oh, well thank you for spying on me.”

“He’s my brother.” Sherlock replies simply, like that is an acceptable answer.

You drop your bag on the bottom stairs leading up to John’s old bedroom, and take off your coat as you walk through the open doorway into the warm but dark living room.

“Did you find him?” Sherlock asks, and you are surprised to discover that he had been paying attention when his companions had told you Bill was missing.

“You’re asking a lot of questions tonight.” You say, hanging up your coat.

“It’s what I do.”

“I thought what you did was answer questions …” You continue, walking forward and looking down at the work that Sherlock had on his desk. The man was busily typing away on his laptop, not even bothering to look down at the keys.

“Well?” He asks again, and you smile fondly at his persistence.

“He’s fine, sent him to a Hostel; didn’t want him to freeze to death.” You pick up a notepad that was lying open of the table, but give up trying to read Sherlock’s so called ‘handwriting’. It looked more like someone had just sketched patterns on to the page. “What are you working on?” You ask, trying to sound more like an investigating detective than a nosey teenager.

“Next case.”

“Can I help?”

“No need, you need to look over Miss Smith’s report.” Sherlock picks up a small paper folder from a pile next to him and wordlessly holds it out in your general direction, all the while still typing with one hand.

You laugh as you take the file, before opening it and slowly trying to decipher the unbreakable code that was the detectives writing. You notice that the first page is a word for word transcript of what Miss Smith had said a few hours prior, and were amazed that Sherlock could manage to remember everything that was said. “You wrote everything down.”

“Yes.”

You look up from the folder to watch Sherlock’s face closely. He doesn’t seem interested at all in the file, and you suddenly realised why. “You’ve figured it out haven’t you; you know what’s going on.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want me to figure it out.” You reply, flipping to the next page and looking on Sherlock’s hand drawn maps of Miss Smiths route to work. “Have you told Miss Smith?”

“She is coming into London tomorrow after work; I will speak to her then.”

“Ok.” You continuing flipping through the file, stopping when a page gets stuck and you have to loudly peel the paper away. Sherlock clearly seems unimpressed with the action, as he clenches his teeth in frustration. “I’m not going to disturb you doing this am I?”

“No.” Sherlock stands from his chair, moving over to his spot by the fireplace and sinking down into his leather seat. You could tell this was going to be a long night.

“Are you sure, I could …”

“Mind palace …” Is all the detective says in reply, and you sigh. You know that that meant either ‘get out’ or ‘shut up’. Not wanting to leave the warm and comfortable living room, you move to take a spot on the sofa, away from the detective. 

After a few hours of reading and writing, you admit defeat. Sherlock still sits motionless with his eyes screwed shut, and you marvel at the man’s ability to sit so still for such a long time. Well that and you also enjoy the silence. It wasn’t something you had living on the streets. You were surrounded by constant noise, and had even found it difficult to sleep on the first few nights in the flat because of the lack of sound.

You think about going upstairs to your room to sleep, but quickly choose against the idea. You were too wound thinking about and trying to solve the case, and the fact that you couldn’t stop worrying about Bill.

“Desk. New case file.” Sherlock says suddenly, and you smile despite the man not even opening his eyes or looking in your direction.

He could obviously sense that you were not in the mood to sleep, although how he knew that was beyond your comprehension. You didn’t even think that the detective did sleep.

You sit and read the case file silently, flinching anytime you turned a page; not wanting to disturb the man currently looking through his mind palace. The information seemed to be unreadable and not even linked, with pictures of what you thought were universities and colleges, next to warehouses and bars. It seemed to be completely random information, but you knew better. Sherlock must be looking for a link between these buildings, and you pondered if maybe you could be any use. You decide that making some tea would be a good start, and move to the kitchen quietly, not wanting to wake Mrs Hudson when you notice the ungodly hour it was.

 

John walks into the room calmly, and you begin to sit up slowly. Sherlock still remained frozen in his chair, his eyes shut and breathing even. You wonder if he had actually fallen asleep, and judging by the look John was sending him, he was obviously wondering the same thing.

“Evening.” You say, yawning as you speak.

“Evening? It’s morning sunshine.” John replies amused, and he moves to the table to loudly deposit a newspaper.

“Bleurgh, that explains it then …” You moan, rubbing your eyes and trying to wake yourself up slightly. You were stiff and had a pounding headache, but no matter how hard you tried, you could not fall asleep.

“When was the last time you got some sleep?” John says suddenly, and you smile sweetly up at the man.

“Erm, when was Wednesday night?” You ask, trying to sound casual.

“Nearly two days ago.”

“Then two days ago.” You reply simply, moving to stand and collect your empty cup and Sherlock’s untouched cup of tea.

“Oh god, you know that really isn’t healthy.” You place the two mugs on the kitchen counter, and hear John follow you into the room. You head was killing you, and you hovered a hand over where you had been bandaged. “Let me see …”

You hold your hand away from the injury, and John squints as he gently inspects where the wound used to be. Now all was left was a red patch of skin and a faint line, but you still let him look. After all, he was a doctor.

“I feel kinda weird.” You admit, wondering whether it was lack of sleep or stress that was causing you to feel so woozy.

“Yeah not sleeping in over 24 hours will do that to you” John replies sharply, answering your unspoken question. He sounds like he is almost scorning you, and you try to remain serious.

You look over towards Sherlock, about to ask him if he wanted anything, when you spot that the man still hadn’t moved. “Look at him.” You scoff, pointing over at the frozen detective and John follows your movement, smiling at his friend fondly. “How does he do it?”

“Manage to annoy you without saying anything?” John jokes, and you laugh as you reach for another mug for your companion.

“No. He hasn’t slept either and he’s … fine.”

“An even mixture of nicotine patches, coffee and regular information. Keeps the brain active.” Sherlock says, jumping up from the chair and casually walking over to the desk where you had placed the folder.

“At this point I don’t think I even have a brain. More like a pile of mush …” You murmur, rubbing your head again and John sighs in exasperation. 

“Ok, bed.” He says suddenly, taking a spoon from your hand and physically moving you towards the stairs.

“I can’t. I promised Sherlock …” You point over to the open file of Miss Smith’s and silently beg that Sherlock would plead your case. Not knowing the answer when the detective did was driving you mad, and you were determined to figure out what was going on.

“He has hundreds of paid lackey’s to do this kind of thing for him. You. Bed. Now.”

You walk slowly towards the bedroom, not wanting to fight against John, who had a arm placed gently on your back as he guided you towards his old room. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm.” The detective had walked into the kitchen, and had amazingly managed to put on his dressing gown In the space of a few seconds. You wondered if he just kept it hidden somewhere …

“Aren’t you going to command me to stay and help you?” You ask, purposely walking even slower to linger by the living room door.

“No.”

“Ok fine.” You concede, turning to smile at John before heading upstairs, your limbs protesting as you climb up the steps. “Goodnight John”

 

**John Watson POV**

“How was that case then? The cyclist …” I ask my friend, heading towards my vacant chair. It looked oddly unused, and I wondered whether or not you ever sat here.

“Her employer was stalking her, trying to protect her from an old friend who had become marginally obsessed and was also staking her. But she didn’t know about that.”

“Jesus.” I mutter, hoping you hadn’t had an encounter with these men.

“She’s moving away at the end of the week, heading up to North Yorkshire to get married.”

“How did she do?” I am genuinely interested. Sherlock claimed that my first cases with him were a complete disaster.

“She was adequate. Can’t say I miss your constant commentary.”

“I didn’t …” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, before sitting opposite me in his chair. “Never mind.” I continue, leaning back and clearing my throat.

“She got there,” Sherlock says after a while, almost sounding like a teach giving a report on a student. It was unnerving “it was a pretty straightforward case. Only a 4.”

“Really? And yet you still went all the way to Brighton.”

“No, she did. On my behalf.”

“Oh, right ok.” I am genuinely surprised by this. It took Mycroft personally asking his brother for a favour and him to decline that led me to get my own case without the detectives assistance. And yet here you were, working alone on a case just a few weeks after you had met Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock frowns, no doubt confused by my sudden smile.

“Nothing.”

“John, what?” The man was persistent, cut clearly because he didn’t like not knowing what I was thinking.

“You just seem to be getting along that’s all. It’s … surprising.”

“Surprising?”

“Yep.”

“That I found a new roommate?”

“That you found a friend Sherlock.”

“I don’t have …”

“Don’t say. I will punch you if you say it …” I growl, and Sherlock actually looks amused. He shifts in his chair, moving his dressing gown and clearly trying to keep active, else he would probably just fall asleep.

“How’s Mary?”

“Pregnant.” I reply simply, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to be amused by my comment.

“I hear that woman have a tendency to become more aggressive in the third trimester …”

“No kidding.” I murmur, remembering when my darling wife had thrown my slippers at me after I had left them by the side of the bed.

“I only mention it because given your wife’s background … well, you may want to avoid angering her.”

My mouth drops open in shock, but I fail to hide my amusement from the smug looking man sitting across from me. “Right yeah, well I’m going.” I decide, remembering that I had to head into work.

“Give my best to Mary.”

“Will do, oh and Sherlock …” I turn from my place by the doorway, looking over at the detective who was just staring into the fire, almost as if in a daydream. 

“Hmm.”

“What are you going to do about Christmas?”

“Avoid it.”

“Very funny.” I lean on the doorframe, making it clear that I was still heading out. “But really, you need to get her something,”

“What, why?” Sherlock turns to me, alarmed, and I laugh at his expression.

“Because, that’s what people do; especially with roommates.”

“Ok.”

“Ok?” I repeat, surprised that the man had accepted so quickly.

“Yes, goodbye John.”

I turn to leave, before spinning around to face Sherlock once again “… nothing alive.”

“Goodbye John.” The man says again, smiling slightly.

“Or recently dead …”

Sherlock just rolls his eyes, and with a final wave, I head out to my office, pondering what on earth the detective was going to get the head of his Network. I spend the rest of the day thinking about it, before suddenly becoming terrified.

“Oh shit …” I say out loud into the empty doctor’s office “He’s going to get her shampoo or something isn’t he.”

I curse my friends black humour, before buzzing through my next patient. To my surprise, it is not someone I had seen in my office before, but they still seemed to be familiar.

“How can I help you sir?” I ask politely, watching as the homeless man sits down slowly and carefully in the chair opposite me. He looks terrified I note, and I wonder if he is part of Sherlock’s network, or even one of your friends. That would explain why he seemed so familiar.

“The woman at the hospital told me to come ‘ere, said it wasn’t an emergency …”

It had become common place for the nearby hospital to send non emergencies patients to me when they were extremely busy. I just nod in understanding, looking at the man as he cradles his arm near his chest.

“May I?” The man nods, and so I reach out as the man extends his arm with a wince. It is as I inspect him up close that I notice his face is bruised, and he looks to have been in a fight.

“Is it broken?” The man asks in a small voice, and I move my fingers carefully up and down the arm.

“No, just sprained.” I pull the sleeve back gently, carefully prodding the skin to feel for any swelling. “How did this happen?”

“A mate of mine was attacked this morning; I was trying to help him out. The bastards got me as well.”

I frown as I continue to feel for any more damage to the arm. I had heard about homeless people being targeted for attacks on the news. This was the first time I had ever treated a victim however, and it made me feel slightly uneasy; knowing that this could have been you.

“Is your friend alright?” I ask, trying to remain casual but still professional.

“No.” The man hangs his head, before quickly wiping away a fear with his free hand “He’s dead.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry.” I reply honestly, before spinning to type some notes on my computer. “Are the police involved?”

“Yeah, they sorted it. He’s at the hospital now. I went with him, and then they told me to come ‘ere and get checked out.”

“Full name?” I ask, preparing to add the man’s details into the database. He needed painkillers, and I wanted to make sure that this incident was going to be reported.

On hearing the man’s full name, I frown to myself. That definitely was familiar, and I thought that maybe I had heard you mention it before. He was only a young man, and it was possible he was a friend from your group.

I ask him if he knows you, and the man’s solemn face breaks out into a quick smile and he nods, before he suddenly looks even more upset than before.

“Oh god, this is gonna kill her?” He brings his uninjured arm up to his face, wiping at it roughly as if the tears were unwanted and unneeded.

“Kill her? What do you mean?” I ask, suddenly needing to understand what was going on. I wanted to know if you were in danger, or even if your friends were. I owed you that much.

“It was ‘er old man wasn’t it? The guy who got battered. Bill.”


	5. The Dancing Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Arthur Conan Doyle - The Dancing Men
> 
> In one of the strangest cases ever received by the detective, Sherlock Holmes is approached by a caring husband whose wife has been terrified by the appearance of childlike drawings around her home.
> 
> A welcomed distraction comes to Baker Street in the form of a concerned husband. Sherlock for once is baffled by the case, but to both his and yours surprise, you are not.

You creep down the stairs feeling much better; refreshed and revived. It was around 6pm, so you had managed to get a decent amount of sleep. Remembering what Bill had told you the night before made you realise just how lucky you were to have a warm room and a bed all to yourself. You vowed that you wouldn’t waste it, and would make sure that you wouldn’t be useless to Sherlock Holmes, who had given you the opportunity to work and live with him. Of course, it had been John’s idea to begin with, but Sherlock had agreed, and you hoped he knew how grateful you were that he did.

As you are halfway down the wooden staircase, you hear voices from the living room. You falter for a second, hearing someone you didn’t immediately recognise.

“This is all the info we have …” Lestrade. What was he doing here?

You continue down the staircase quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever it was that was going on.

“The lab report?”

“Yeah it’s all in there.” Greg continues “It’s a shame; a real bloody shame.” You can almost see the man shaking his head, but don’t dare move on the creaky staircase. Something told you that you shouldn’t be interrupting.

“An average of one hundred homeless people are attacked or killed in London alone per year Inspector. It’s not exactly a new phenomenon …” You stop dead then, listening intently to the conversation between Greg and Sherlock.

You hadn’t seen Greg in a while, not since you and Sherlock had helped him with the Vauxhall Bridge murder. You wanted to see him, but something was keeping you glued to your spot on the staircase.

“Jesus Sherlock, don’t let her hear you say that!”

“Not good?” The detective asks, and you don’t have the will to roll your eyes at his comment. Something was going on, and it sounded serious.

“You’re an idiot.” John’s voice replies suddenly, and you think that he must be stood in the kitchen, as his voice is nowhere near as loud or clear to you than the other two men.

“Where is she?” Greg asks after a minute, and then you realise he was talking about you. You falter for a few seconds, wondering if you should try and sneak back to your room.

“Asleep.” Sherlock answers quickly, and you hear some pages being turned loudly. Cleary the detective was reading something. You think you hear someone clear there throat, but it doesn’t sound like any of the three men. Was there someone else in the room?

“Thank you for this Greg.” John says, and his voice sounds louder, signalling that he must have made his way back into the living room.

“No problem. I should be heading back to the station.”

You hear muffled thank you’s and farewells from John and Greg, before suddenly the Detective steps out into the hallway, putting on his long black coat.

“Greg?” You ask quietly, all the while wondering why you didn’t want Sherlock or John to know you were outside the room.

“Oh, hey love. You alright?” Greg asks, but he doesn’t sound casually or his usual warm self. He sounded … worried.

“Yeah, I’m … fine.”

John steps out into the hallway then, and he doesn’t look surprised that you are stood strangely halfway down the stairs. He nods at Greg, and the Inspector smiles at you before heading down and out of Baker Street.

“Could you come in here a minute sweetheart? Someone’s here to see you.” You walk slowly towards John, who moves out of the way of the doorway to let you pass him and enter the living room.

Sherlock is stood in the centre of the room, appearing dishevelled and it is immediately clear that he didn’t get any sleep. He ignores you and John entering the room, and is instead intensely focused on a small file in his hands. You recognised that kind of document; it was a police file. You had become accustomed to reading them often, but the atmosphere in the room told you that this wasn’t an ordinary case. You hear your name, and turn to see a familiar face sat on the sofa in the corner of the room.

“David?”

“Have a seat.” John says, directing you next to David, and you sink down slowly.

“What’s going on?”

John looks to Sherlock, and you look to David, trying to gleam an idea of why his was here. Sherlock stops flicking through the file, and closes it before turning to you. He has his ‘detective’ face on you realise. You had seen that expression many times, but never directed at you.

“William Morgan, otherwise known as Bill, was attacked and killed last night by a group of fifteen year olds.”

You blink, replaying the words over in your mind. The room is mind-numbingly silent, and you hear David next to you shift in his seat.

“What?” You ask, dumbfounded. Surely there had been some mistake … It was a test you decide. Sherlock was testing you …

“I’m so sorry …” John’s says in a solemn voice, and you turn your bleary eyes in his direction.

“He was found outside a bus station …”

“No.” You shake your head, ignoring the pleading look David was giving you. “No, he was at the Hostel … the one on Queen Street.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that he wasn’t …”

“Sherlock!” John reprimands his friend, and the detective makes to reply, but then stops.

You don’t snap at Sherlock, just look at him to see his clear blue eyes appearing confused and disinterested. He didn’t care you realise. He didn’t care that the man who had saved your life, who had become a father to you … was dead. A sob escapes your lips, and you bury your face in your hands. David shifts on the sofa, moving closer towards you.

“Sherlock, let’s give them a minute” John asks, and you don’t look up to see the detective’s reaction. Cleary, he wasn’t too fond of displays of emotion or being told to leave his own living room, as you hear his distinct footsteps walk away, followed by his bedroom door closing.

John pats your knee, before moving over to his seat at the other side of the room. You can’t stop the tears that run down your face, and David puts an arm around you, not even bothering to try and hide his own tears.

 

“I didn’t know you lived with Ash …” David says, shifting even closer to you and looking around the room as he does.

“Didn’t you?” You ask, wiping away your tears and watching as your friend looks around the room with an expression of awe.

“Well, I knew you was working with him. But now, you seem more like a companion.”

“No that’s John’s job. I’m just his assistant. For now at least.” You say as an afterthought, wondering if you still would be of use to the detective. After all, you still hadn’t even solved Miss Smith’s case.

“Ash?” John asks from his chair, and you falter for a moment, almost forgetting that the man was there.

“Sherlock.” You answer loudly so the man can hear you from across the room. “That’s his … codename” You flushed embarrassed at the revelation, but David just nods, with a deadly serious expression on his face.

“You use codenames?” John asks, failing to hide his amusement.

“Yeah, we can’t be saying ‘Sherlock Holmes’ all the time. It draws attention” David replies, and you smile at John’s amused expression.

“Or John Watson.” You add “People recognise the name.”

“Fair enough” John concedes, standing and moving across the small room to where you and your friend sit on the sofa. “So, what was my codename?”

“Doctor.” David answers immediately, and John frowns, seeming to be disappointed.

“That’s rubbish”

“Trust me, it’s better than what someone else came up with” You reply, and you shake your head when the man gives you a ‘tell me more…’ expression.

“Do you always use that name for Sherlock?” John continues, sitting closer to you on a wooden chair by the table.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondered.” John seems to be amused by your little codenames, and you wonder if maybe even you had one, now that you were staying with the detective. You made a mental note to ask David about it later.

“And Mycroft” David continues, and you manage to poke him harshly in the ribs without John seeing.

“Mycroft?” The man asks, clearly enjoying that even more than Sherlock or himself being given a nickname.

“Also known as ‘Stick’” David continues, rubbing his side and winking at you when you roll your eyes.

“Stick?”

“Yeah, because he always has an umbrella.” David explains, and John laughs once, clearly amused.

“Then why not just call him umbrella?” The man asks, and you smile as David’s expression changes suddenly.

“Because that’s stupid.” You laugh and David turns to smile at you, obviously pleased he had managed to change your mood.

“Yeah, plus ‘stick’ rhymes with what we used to call him …”

Sherlock marches back into the room, and you, David and John all try to disguise your laughter.

“What?” The detective asks in his usual monotone.

“Nothing Sherlock.” John replies, clearing his throat and maintaining his composure. You and David can’t repress all your laughter however, and Sherlock frowns at you both.

“Have they gone mad?”

“Who knows. Is that the report?”

The mood in the room drops suddenly, and you feel slightly ill. You note that Sherlock at least has the grace to look contrite as he passes the small folder over to John. David shifts beside you, and you can sense his discomfort.

“He’s going to be buried at the Camberwell New Cemetery, it’s outside the city …” John says, looking up at both you and your companion with an apologetic expression

“That’s alright Mr Watson, Bill never really like the pollution in the city much, right …” Bill nudges you, and you can only nod your head in reply.

“There’s no next of kin, so he’s going to have a funeral paid for by the state. No guests or speakers, just a priest …”

“That’s fine” David interrupts, and both Sherlock and John frown at you.

“You … don’t want to attend?” John asks bemused, and you can feel Sherlock looking at you.

“Nah, Bill was never one for church and all that. We’ll say bye in our own way.” David puts a hand around your shoulder, and you stay quiet, ignoring the three gazes in your direction.

“Ok.” John concedes, holding out the file to David. “Do you want to …”

“Nah. That’s ok Mr Watson.” David replies, shaking his head and trying to hide the break in his voice, but you heard it.

“I will.” You hold your hand out for the file, and John pauses for a few seconds before finally handing it over.

David clears his throat awkwardly, before standing suddenly and doing up his coat. Clearly, the man had been watching Sherlock’s habits.

“Well I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you tomorrow love …” It’s not a question, because you know David and the group weren’t going to let you get out of this.

“Ok.” You say in a small voice that doesn’t even sound like your own, and you move your legs so David can clamber over you to get to the door. Just as he does however, he is accosted by Sherlock, and the two begin talking in small voices. You ignore them both, just looking down at the closed file in your hands.

“Can I keep this?” You ask John. You wanted to read it, but just weren’t ready.

“Of course.” John replies, surprising you. Although you didn’t think you would have given it back even if he had said no. “Read it when you’re ready.”

You nod, holding the file closely to yourself as Sherlock finally finishes his conversation and walks back into the room. With David gone, it was just you and the two friends. An awkward silence fills the room, and you are at a loss of what to say. Did they want you to leave? Did they want you to stay?

“Tea?” A voice from the kitchen asks, and you nod, smiling. You hadn’t even known that Mrs Hudson was here.

“Thanks Mrs Hudson.” John replies, and he seats down next to you in the spot that David had left vacant.

“So … what happens now?” You ask, raising your head and finally feeling like your teas had subsided. At least for now.

“We have a case.” Sherlock says, somewhat cheerfully, and you almost smile at his enthusiasm.

“Sherlock …” John reprimands his friend, and the detective actually looks apologetic.

“No. It’s okay.” You reply, obviously surprising the two men. Mrs Hudson places two tea cups on the table in front of you and John, patting you quickly on the knee before she walks back into the kitchen. You sit up straight and you wipe your eyes. “Tell me.”

Sherlock sits at the table near you, a small smile on his face. John frowns at the man as he sips his tea, but you both listen intently as the detective tells you of his latest case.

It is interesting; like nothing you had come across before. You hear Bill in your head as you listen to Sherlock; the man’s voice teasing you about ‘your detective’. He wasn’t ‘your’ detective you reason to the imaginary Bill, but he was your friend. And as long as he would have you, you would stay at Baker Street, helping him in any way you could. After all, Bill had saved you once, and Sherlock had done it again. If it wasn’t for him, you would be under a bridge or sleeping at a bus stop. You would have no food, no money and no future. The man hadn’t just given you a job; he had given you a life, and a future. Sherlock seems oblivious to your inner monologue, but just talks animatedly about the next case. A strange case, about Dancing Men.

Sherlock pulls his laptop over to his lap, and begins clicking rapidly. John stands to place your now empty cups in the sink, and you watch the detective as he looks enraptured at something on the screen. He stops for a moment, before flipping the screen around so you can see whatever it was that he was looking at. You recognise that the man is reading emails, and the attachment that he opens appears to be the drawing that he had told you about. It appears just to be a row of stick figures, but you know that they cannot be as simple as they look. 

  
“His wife found these figures carved into a garden bench, and they terrified her.” Sherlock explains, and you reach out to take the computer from him.

“They just look like, like a kids drawing or something.” You reply, feeling slightly disappointed that a closer inspection of the image hadn’t revealed anything particularly strange.

“You’re sure that this is what it looked like.” John asks, pointing towards the laptop that rested on your legs. Clearly he was as bemused as you were. 

“Mr Cubitt assured me that those figures are an identical copy of the ones his wife saw. Apparently he spent a good deal of time to make it exact.”

“Mr Cubitt? Where have I heard that name before?” John continues, moving to sit back next to you on the sofa.

“Didn’t he buy that  _huge_ manor house outside London a few weeks ago?” You ask, and John and Sherlock both turn to you. Sherlock looks amused, whereas John just looks plainly amazed. “What? I read the newspapers as well you know.”

“The very same.” Sherlock says with a nod, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “A very respectable man by all accounts.”

“And what did his wife say?”

“She didn’t.”

John frowns, and you continue to inspect the image on the computer. You still couldn’t see anything interesting. “What, she denied seeing them?”

“No, she hasn’t spoken since he did see them. Apparently she’s locked herself in the house and barely moves from her bedroom.”

“Has Mr Cubitt been emailing you?” You ask, clicking off the attachment and noticing a huge amount of emails that appeared to be from a Mr Cubitt.

“Yes, and he should be here … any minute now.” Sherlock says casually, taking the laptop from you and placing back on the table.

“What?” You reply, and you subconsciously look at the dishevelled clothes you were wearing.

“Sherlock! You should have said.” John scolds his friend, but Sherlock just looks confused.

“I just did.” John huffs, and you smile fondly at the man. “Don’t you have somewhere to be John?”

“Right, I should be heading home. Unless …” He stops to look at you, and you can’t help but be moved that the man was concerned about you.

“I’m ok John. You go and see Mary. We’ll handle this.”

John says his goodbyes and makes his way back home, all the while Sherlock is drawing something on a piece of paper and doesn’t even look up when his friend leaves the flat. He hands you a copy of the image that he had hand drawn, but you notice that he had made small notes around the page.

“So, what do you think?” The man asks, handing you the paper.

“I’ve never seen them before.” Sherlock huffs, before walking over to his seat by the fire and sitting down heavily. You smile at the detectives annoyed expression. “You look disappointed.”

“I thought they may be code for something.”

“And I would know that because …”

“You use codes.” Sherlock replies simply. You frown for a moment, not really understanding why the man would think you would recognise the strange picture.

“Well yes but …” You stop then, your eyes growing wide. Sherlock just smirks and you hope that you aren’t visibly blushing. “Oh god, you heard us didn’t you.”

“To be honest I think I prefer Mycroft’s original codename to ‘Stick’”

You laugh freely, and for a few seconds all your sombre thoughts leave your brain. It is just another day in Baker Street, with you and Sherlock working on your latest case.

Mrs Hudson suddenly appears from the living room doorway. You smile at her, and the woman smiles back, appearing almost to be distracted by watching you and the detective for a few moments. That is of course, until Sherlock loudly clears his throat.

“Sherlock, there’s someone downstairs asking after you.”

“Show him in Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock replies, standing and moving over to where his navy jacket sits on his chair by the fire.

“I’m not your housekeeper you know.” The woman argues with a frown, but she still walks down the staircase to show your new client in.

You adjust your clothing quickly as you stand, before moving over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Apparently your new client was rich, and also English. You thought that a cup of tea would be a good place to start.

“Mr Holmes?” A kind voice says, and you turn to walk back into the living room.

The man wore a patterned suit, and you were distracted by the fact that he looked almost like a stereotypical farmer more than a man who owned a huge manor house.

“Mr Cubitt I presume. Have a seat.” Sherlock says politely, motioning over to John’s vacant chair.

The man moves over to the chair, stopping when he sees you stood halfway between the kitchen and living room. You smile politely, hoping that the man wouldn’t be able to tell you had been crying.

“Hi.” You say quietly, and Sherlock wordlessly hands you your notebook.

You are flabbergasted by the action, coupled with the fact that Sherlock points to his own chair by the fire, obviously wanting you to sit down. You do as your instructed, watching as the detective picks up his drawing from the table and hands it to your new client.

“So what do you make of it Mr Holmes?”

“A childish drawing, no doubt a prank.” Sherlock answers, pacing in front of you and Mr Cubitt. His movement was making you dizzy, and so you distracted yourself by finding a clean page in your notebook to take some notes.

“Prank or not Mr Holmes, this has scared my wife half to death.” The man replies, waving the small piece of paper in the detective’s direction.

“Do you have any ideas as to who is tormenting your wife Mr Cubitt?” Sherlock asks simply, and you fight the urge to tell the man to hold still.

“I thought it might be our gardener, but he denies it.”

“Is there anyone else who regularly comes to the house?”

“Well yes. We have the young man who comes to do the garden once a week. I saw him last night and he had no idea what the figures were, let alone where they came from. And we have a live in maid. She’s been with us for years.”

“Maid?” You whisper, shooting a look to Sherlock. The man rises a brow quickly, and you hide your smirk as you write down some notes.

“How long have you known your wife Mr Cubitt?” The detective asks, mercifully pausing from his pacing and putting his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t …”

“Trust me, it’s a relevant question.” Sherlock says coolly, and Mr Cubitt visibly gulps.

“3 years. I met her here in London at a hotel, and we became friends. She would come to visit me in Derbyshire after I returned home, and we were married a few months later. It was quick I suppose, but we just … clicked.”

“Tell us about your wife Mr Cubitt.” Sherlock asks, and you roll your eyes as he begins to rapidly pace yet again. You wondered if you would manage to trip him if you stuck your leg out as he passed you …

“Well, she is a few years younger than me. Originally from America, Chicago I believe.”

“And why did she come to London?”

“She travelled most of her life, and after we became friends she decided to immigrate here and stay in England.”

Sherlock stops suddenly, and looks over to you. You write down what Mr Cubitt just said, paying special attention to the fact that Sherlock deemed that information important.

“We need more.” The detective mutters under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock sweeps over to the client, all but pulling him out of his chair and guiding him out of the room. “Mr Cubitt, please do not hesitate to contact me should more of these drawings appear …”

“Of course Mr Holmes.” Mr Cubitt responds, bemused by the man’s actions.

You watch as the two men stand by the door conversing, and move to the kitchen to deal with the now boiled kettle. You understood what Sherlock was concerned about. Obviously this drawing had a meaning, or even a secret message of some sort. But without more, you wouldn’t be able to read them. Sherlock walked back into the living room as you hear Mr Cubitt descend the stairs. He moves over to his empty wall above the sofa, and sticks the image in the centre.

“That wasn’t exactly sympathetic.” You murmur, placing a cup of tea for the detective on the table. You never really saw him drink it, but thought it wouldn’t hurt to keep making him them. John would be pleased to know you tried you think, walking back into the kitchen to fix yourself your own drink.

“He doesn’t come to me for sympathy.” Sherlock murmurs, sticking up another piece of paper.

It is the same image, but this time he had separated the small figures. He circled the flags, and had written a small note on the page that simply read ‘stop’.

“You think they’re words?” You ask, noticing that the figures were now in small groups.

“I know they’re words.” Sherlock replies simply, standing further back and admiring the images from a distance. “The question is, what does it say?”

You and Sherlock sat in the living room after Mr Cubitt leaves for hours. The detective had managed to find a whiteboard, and had meticulously drawn out the strange symbols so you could both look at it in more detail. You wondered where the whiteboard came from, but didn’t ask, in the fear that you would invite the detective to start off on a tangent.

You stand in front of the board, looking at the symbols but not daring to draw or make notes. Sherlock’s phone chimes from its place on the table, and the detective walks over to answer it. To your surprise, the man doesn’t even look at the screen, but just presses a button and places the device into his pocket. Clearly he was ignoring someone, and you had a nagging feeling that it was Mycroft.

Whilst the detective is stood near the desk, his laptop pings, indicating that the man had received an email. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds, and you wonder if this was going to be another night of mostly silence.

“Another message from Mr Cubitt …” Sherlock says, moving over to the whiteboard and beginning to draw another two lines of the strange dancing men.

Standing and not doing much else but stare at a board had made you groggy, and you run a hand over your eyes to try and wake yourself up. You were trying to focus on the case, lest your mind wander to thoughts of Bill.

“This appeared on his front door when he returned home a few minutes ago. He just sent through an email.” The detective continues, still working on the images.

You found it to be a vast improvement that Sherlock was now explaining what was going on in the case, and in his head. It allowed you to keep up. Sherlock finishes the new drawing and moves back over to his desk. His mobile phone buzzes yet again, but he ignores it.

Walking over to Sherlock’s opened laptop, you read the message from your latest client. He seemed angry, and you could sense how tense and stressed he was just through the words alone. Sherlock brushes past you to sit at the table and work on his laptop, so with a sigh you retreat back over to the board. The figures almost started to move after you had stared at them for so long, and you wondered if maybe you should just call it a night. Sherlock however, didn’t seem to be in the sleeping mood, as he was typing manically on his computer.

“What’s her name?”

“What?” Sherlock asks, and you can tell that the man is barely paying attention.

“Mrs Cubitt, what’s her first name?” You ask again.

“Elsie I believe.” Sherlock answers, not looking up from his work.

“Elsie …”

That would work, you think, looking at the childish drawing. There was one figure in particular that seemed to have been used more than any other. It was used twice at the bottom of the page, and you wondered which letter would be commonly used enough to work in the cypher.

You slowly approached the image on the whiteboard, looking closely at the five figures that danced at the bottom of the page. Mr Cubitt had sworn that this row of men were completely separate to the others, which would mean …

You look over to Sherlock, who flicks through a huge leather bound book. It looks ancient, but the man seemed to find it fascinating reading. You slowly pick up a pen from the bottom of the board, and begin to write in small letters, Elsie.

“What are you …” Sherlock turns to reprimand you, obviously not enjoying the fact that you were touching his work. Suddenly, the detective sees what you are doing, and moves to stand next to you in a frantic flurry of movement. “Of course …” The man mutters, looking at the handwritten note of ‘Elsie’ you had added to the board.

“Does that work?” You ask, looking at the five figures and the five letters you had written underneath.

Sherlock frowns, looking at the image on the board and your note as if it were something alien. He holds his hand out for the whiteboard pen, and you wordlessly hand it over.

He begins to write the same letters you had written, but much larger and along the blank lines that looked like they were from a blank game of hangman. Now if you had been right, you had four letters solved. Sherlock began to fill these in around the board, but there were still a lot of missing letters.

“We need another message …” The detective says, standing back to admire the board.

“I don’t think Mr Cubitt would agree with that …” You mutter in response, remembering how stressed and angry he had appeared to be in his latest message.

“We won’t get anything more done tonight. I’ll let Mr Cubitt know to watch for more messages.”

Sherlock marches back over to his computer, and for a moment you think about advising that he go to bed. You used to be amazed that no matter what time you contacted the detective, he always seemed to be awake and working. Now however, that you were seeing it first hand, it just made you feel worried.

“Anything I can do?” You ask, moving to stand behind the man in case he asked you to work at his desk. He often asked you to read through books or take more notes, but tonight he appeared that he didn’t really need your assistance.

The detective shakes his head, before bringing up a webpage that you see is about the Chicago police department. You head for the bathroom, intent on freshing yourself up. You surprised yourself with how tired you were, as you had a long nap after John had reprimanded you this morning. Looking in the mirror, you see a sunken and pale face staring back at you. You looked ill, and wondered if you had appeared this bad when you had company. You had begun to look a little healthier since living with Sherlock, but now you appeared like you had when you were living on the streets.

Before your mind can wander, you exit the bathroom, and hear that Sherlock is on the phone. He has adopted a flawless American accent, and is talking animatedly to someone. You tiptoe onto the landing and smile to yourself as you walk upstairs.

The bedroom that had once been Johns was bare, except from a small wardrobe, a bedside table and a double bed. You had nothing to unpack, except for your bag of clothes and some personal items. When you had stayed in hostels, you never took anything out of your bag. You were constantly ready to leave at a moment’s notice, but for some reason, you suddenly realised how unhomely the room looked, and you wanted to change that.

You spend a few minutes taking out your clothes, admiring some of the new ones you had gotten from Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mary. You hang each item in the wardrobe carefully, making sure that they were all evenly spaced out and looked neat and tidy. You then tip the remaining items onto the bed, and spread them out so you can admire them. You place your small tattered purse and the phone Sherlock and given you back into the bag. Next, you hold up a painting you had been given from one of your last cases. The young woman, Ellie Ferguson, you remember, had made it for you when you had been helping her and her brother. John had affectionately nicknamed the case ‘The Vampire of Sussex’. You place the painting on the wall, taking some pins that remained behind from John’s tenancy to hold it in place. Next, you take out your notebook, and place it on the bedside table. You have a few pieces of jewellery and makeup that you had had for a long while, and so place the small bag containing them at the bottom of the wardrobe. The last item on the bed was the picture of your family. Bill, Wiggins, David … everyone in your group smiling and laughing at the camera. It was your favourite possession. You carefully rest in up against the wall on your bedside table, before finally placing your rucksack on the floor by your bed.

Once finished, you put on a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt. You climb into bed, before turning to look at the photo.

“Goodnight Bill.” You whisper, before you turn on your pillow and close your eyes, listening to Sherlock downstairs as a cold tear runs down your cheek.

 

The next morning, you rise early, your nap from the previous afternoon making it difficult for you to stay in bed longer. To your surprise, Sherlock appears to have gone to bed when you walk into the living room, so you walk into the kitchen to make some tea. Whilst the kettle is boiling, you hear Sherlock’s ringtone sound from its place on his chair. Before you can make a move towards it, the detective bolts out of his room, putting the phone to his ear and beginning to talk in his American accent as he had done last night. You continue with your task of making tea, and are busy wondering if the man would want breakfast when Sherlock ends the call.

“Fridge …” The man says, and you follow his one word instruction to discover some sausages and eggs sitting on the designated ‘food shelf’.

“Thanks.” You reply, pulling out a frying pan from the cupboard and moving over to the stove.

“Don’t burn the house down.” Sherlock teases, now sitting on his computer.

“I’ll try not to.” You say honestly, remembering all the times you had seen Mrs Hudson cook for you and Sherlock and hoping that you were doing it somewhat correctly.

You watch Sherlock read as you cook your breakfast. He seems enamoured with something, as he is just staring at the screen, not typing anything. Suddenly, a ‘ping’ sounds from the computer, and Sherlock shifts in his chair, quickly clicking on something.

“Another message from Mr Cubitt …” Sherlock says, just as you place a sausage and fried egg sandwich next to him.

To your dismay, the detective doesn’t even acknowledge the food before he shoots up and begins to draw on the whiteboard.

You sigh as you begin to eat your own food, watching as the detective draws out the new message.

Suddenly, Sherlock stops. “Sherlock?”

You get no response from the detective; he just rushes over to gather his coat, before reaching behind you to grab his uneaten sandwich. He shoves it into his mouth, before running down the stairs.

You call after the detective, who begins frantically speaking to Mrs Hudson. No doubt his thunderously loud steps on the wooden staircase had woken her. You hear him mention John, but don’t really listen to the rest of the conversation. You stand, staring dumbfounded at the board.

Sherlock calls your name, and you grab your coat, quickly heading downstairs as the words from the new message burn into your brain.

_“Elsie, prepare to meet your God.”_

You and Sherlock remain silent for the entire morning journey to Mr and Mrs Cubitts country home. The last message had been completely clear; someone was planning on killing Mrs Cubitt. You wanted to ask if Sherlock had called the police, or at least Lestrade, but his demeanour and expression ultimately had you keeping silent and still in your train seat. You hoped and prayed with every ounce of your being that you would arrive in time to warn your client what was going on, and hoped that Mrs Cubitt could provide you with some answers.

You shift in your train seat, feeling oddly naked without your bag. You had never left it behind before, but you had been in such a rush that you hadn’t gone up to your room to retrieve it. You knew it would be safe at Baker Street, but couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that crept over you because of its absence.

Sherlock’s phone buzzes in his pocket as you near your destination, and you look at his watch as he types away a reply. It was only 8:30am, and the knowledge that it was so early gave you hope. Maybe, you weren’t going to be too late.

You both exit the train quickly, and you almost have to run full sprint to keep up with your companion. As you exit the station, Sherlock spots a vacant taxi, and you dash forward to claim it. As you near the door, a man steps in between you and the vehicle, a business like expression on his face. 

“Mr Holmes?”

“Yes …” Sherlock replies warily, nodding at you to get in the taxi.

“Detective Lord.” The man holds out his hand and Sherlock very poignantly doesn’t shake it “We’ve been expecting you sir.” The man continues, drawing back his hand and smiling awkwardly.

“Expecting us?”

You look over to Sherlock from the back of the taxi, the door remaining open in case the detective decided that the conversation wasn’t going anywhere and wanted to make a break for it.

“You’d best hurry sir, you may still be able help her.”

Sherlock frowns, utterly bemused, and you lean forward from you seat to address the detective. Clearly these people thought you were someone else …

“Help her?”

“Mrs Cubitt.” The man turns to address you, and Sherlock’s eyes widen as he hears the name “She’s murdered her husband.”

 

You sit in the back of the taxi with Sherlock, having kindly refused the offer to ride to the crime scene with Detective Lord in a police car. Sherlock never accepted offers from Lestrade either, and you wondered what it was about them that he didn’t like.

Detective Lord had been interviewing some witnesses before you had arrived, with one telling him about Mr Cubitt going to London in search of the famous detective. Detective Lord had assumed Sherlock would hear what happened, and head down to Derbyshire to see his client. He had hoped Sherlock would have some answers, but it would seem for now, Sherlock was keeping quiet about The Dancing Men. 

Pulling up to the house of Mr and Mrs Cubitt, you are momentarily dumbstruck. You had known that the man was wealthy, and owned a huge property, but this was beyond anything you could imagine. The house was more like a castle, with the ambulances, police cars, reporters and more gathering around the house easily fitting in the enormous gravelled driveway. The house was stunning, and it truly upset you to think that this was now the scene of a grisly murder.

You follow Sherlock and Detective Lord into the building, avoiding awaiting press and leaning under the police line that Sherlock so politely holds up for you. As you enter the entrance, a man approaches the Detective, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Finally!” He growls to Detective Lord, before gesturing to Sherlock “This way please ...”

The detective makes to say something to the man, but Sherlock gets there before him. “I am Sherlock Holmes; I believe you’ve been expecting me.”

“Mr Holmes?” The man says, sounding completely taken aback. He rushes over to where you and Sherlock stand near the doorway, and quickly takes the mans unoffered hand and shakes it rapidly. In any other circumstance, you may have laughed at Sherlock’s expression in meeting an obvious fan. “Of course sir, it’s a pleasure.”

“And you are?” Sherlock asks, removing his hand and plainly wiping it along his long black coat. You can’t stop your eye roll at his childish gesture.

“Oh apologises sir, Doctor Hilton, Mr Holmes. I’m head of forensics on this investigation.”

“Doctor Milton is a big fan of your work Mr Holmes …” Detective Lord says with a small smile, just as you move out the way of some people who walk into the hallway.

“Clearly.”

Sherlock walks further into the hallway, turning to check you were behind him. You follow him and Detective Lord as they walk through the huge house, Doctor Hilton walking side by side with Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes, how did you hear about this incident? I mean, it only happened in the early hours of this morning. There was no official announcement made …”

“We were expecting it.” Sherlock interrupts Doctor Hilton, as you all stand outside a closed door.

Doctor Hilton and Detective Lord frown, before looking over to you. You shrug, before remembering that you were now part of a official investigation.

“We hoped that we would be able to stop it.” You reply, and the two men look away from you with matching solemn expressions.

“I see. Terrible shame. But, I do believe it seems to be a simple case.”

“Mrs Cubitt?” Sherlock asks Detective Lord. He seemed to be looking at everything in the room, without even moving around.

“In hospital. She was taken there this morning.”

“How is she?” You ask, surprising even yourself with the question.

“In critical condition.” Doctor Hilton answers your question. You nod, before walking closer to Sherlock and away from more people who had entered the room, this time taking photographs. You couldn’t help but feel like you were in the way.

Detective Lord, turns to Sherlock, clearing his throat. “Mr Holmes, you know we can’t just let anybody wander into …”

“She is my personal assistant. She’s stays with me throughout my investigation.”

You look over to the detective as Sherlock begins exploring the room, and smile shyly as the man frowns at you. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting that answer. “I promise I won’t get in the way.”

“The body is through here Mr Holmes …” Doctor Hilton says, gesturing to the closed door. You realised he must have been talking about Mr Cubitt, and you tried not to let your distress show openly on your face.

“No.” Sherlock says, taking off his coat and holding it in his arms. “First I would like to speak to the witnesses.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yes. There were people here in the house when the incident occurred.”

“Well yes; a Miss McGee the maid and a Mr Bolton. I believe he was a gardener for the Cubitts who was staying the night.”

“Lead the way …” Sherlock says to Detective Lord, and you send a parting glance to Doctor Hilton, before you follow the two men from the room, in the opposite direction of Mr Cubitt.

 

“Why were you here Mr Bolton?”

You sit next to Sherlock at the Cubitts kitchen table. You internally curse yourself for not collecting your notepad, but you had been in a rush. Suddenly, a hand comes from behind you, and wordlessly puts a piece of paper and a pen in front of you. You smile in thanks at Detective Lord, and then at Sherlock, knowing he must have mentioned something.

“Mr Cubitt asked me to sir.” Mr Bolton replies from his seat opposite you.

“Why?”

The young woman beside him, Miss McGee, wipes away a tear and turns to address the detective. You pull the paper towards you, ready to take notes. “A few nights ago, Mrs Cubitt came downstairs and was trying to sneak out. Mr Cubitt called for me and I came down to help get her back into bed. When we were stood by the door, we saw someone outside. A man …”

“Who?”

“I didn’t see his face Mr Holmes.” The woman replies, and you know she is telling the truth. Sherlock seems to think so to, as he sighs quietly before turning to Mr Bolton.

“Mr Cubitt asked that I stay here with them until they found out what was going on. I think he was worried that the man would break in.”

The detective nods, and you quickly write some notes in your abysmal handwriting. John hadn’t thought it was that bad when he had looked in your notebook, but then again, he was a doctor. 

“What happened this morning?” Sherlock asks loudly, shifting around in his chair and taking a dominant stance.

“I was woken up by this … thunderous bang. It was so loud it shook the house.”

“And you Mr Bolton?” Sherlock turns to the man, as Miss McGee blows her nose loudly.

“Same for me.” The man says with a solemn expression “I woke up and walked to the door; saw Sharon outside her bedroom, and then we heard a second bang.”

“But it was quieter, not as loud as the first one.” Miss McGee continues, and she lifts her tissue to her face to wipe her eyes.

“Go on …” Sherlock prompts, and you note the softness in his tone.

“Well we rushed downstairs, and found …” Sharon gasps then, her tears beginning to flow rapidly as she no doubt remembers what she saw that morning.

“I called the 999, and Sharon helped Mrs Cubitt. She was still breathing. But Mr Cubitt …” Mr Bolton takes a deep breath, and shakes his head.

You keep quiet throughout the interview; just taking notes every now and again and listening closely to the conversation. You had assisted Sherlock before, but never on a case like this. This was now a murder case, and a new one. You had worked with Molly in the morgue once before and even helped Greg at a crime scene after a man had been murdered. But this was different. This was your client and his wife, and being able to picture him smiling and alive in Baker Street just made everything so much worse. You let Sherlock lead the case, understanding that now wasn’t a time for you to be learning or trying to deduce things. Now was the time for you to listen, and watch the master at work.

“Was anything moved in the room?” Sherlock asks suddenly, and the two interviewees frown, clearly not understanding why the man had changed the conversation.

“No Mr Holmes. Everything looked to be in its normal place.” Mr Bolton says, and Sherlock frowns.

“Except …”

“Yes?” Sherlock prompts the young maid, and she looks to Mr Bolton, almost as if she wanted reassurance.

“The window, the one out facing the garden. It was wide open.” Sharon says, and Mr Bolton looks to Sherlock and shrugs, in a clear ‘I didn’t know that’ gesture. “I closed it before anyone came. It was making the room freezing cold …” The woman adds, before Sherlock stands quickly and ultimately silences her mid speech.

“Thank you.” Is all the detective says, and you quickly move to follow him and his sweeps from the kitchen and back into the hallway.

 

You look down at the body of Mr Cubitt. It was not the first body you had seen in your life, but the fact that you knew the man made it ten times more awful to see the figure lying bloodied on the living room floor.

“He was shot once through the heart. Clear shot, died instantly.” Sherlock recites, standing from the body and continuing to move throughout the room. Two men come in to remove the body, and you murmur a quiet goodbye as he passes you.

You wondered if Sherlock was making an observation about the man dying instantly, or whether he wanted to assure himself that Mr Cubitt didn’t suffer as much as you did.

“The murder weapon?” Sherlock asks, and Detective Lord steps forward and produces the gun that had killed Mr Cubitt.

“It was found in the hand of Mrs Cubitt.” The detective says, as Sherlock opens the gun and inspects it.

“Two bullets missing …”

“One in Mr Cubitt, and one in Mrs Cubitt. As I said Mr Holmes, this seems to be a fairly simply case.”

Sherlock snaps the gun shut with more force than  necessary, and hands it back to the detective. He walks over to the window that according to Miss McGee, had been wide open during the incident. Sherlock inspects it for a few seconds, before turning back to Detective Lord with an expression that couldn’t be anything other than smug.

“Then how do you explain the bullet that clearly hit the window frame.” Sherlock says, pulling out his magnifying glass from his pocket and holding it up for the detective to look through.

“How on earth did you see that?” The man asks, sounding both bemused and impressed.

“I was looking for it.” Sherlock says.

Before you can comment, the man pushes the glass window open, and climbs through, gracefully hoping down onto the gravel outside. You hear more than see the man move around, and turn to shrug at Detective Lord when he gives you a confused look.

“Well, that means that a third person was present.” The detective calls out the window, before suddenly Sherlock’s hand shoots up into vision.

“The third bullet, no doubt matching the bullet from Mr Cubitts gun.” Sherlock says calmly, before placing a small bullet in Detective Lord’s open palm.

“Who was he shooting at?” You ask Sherlock, as he clambers back into the living room through the window.

“But Mr Holmes, the witnesses claim that they only heard two gunshots.” Detective Lord says, as a forensic officer moves forward to bag the bullet the man was holding.

“And they did …” Sherlock says simply, adjusting his clothes before pulling off his plastic gloves. When Detective Lord just frowns, Sherlock rolls his eyes, before looking over to you expectantly.

“The first shot was at the same time …” You reply, and as you say the thought out loud you know that it is true. Sherlock smiles at you quickly, before moving over to the window where he had just come from.

“An intruder stood here, and Mr Cubitt and he shot at the same time. Mr Cubitts bullet hit the window frame, and the second bullet hit Mr Cubitt.” Sherlock holds his arm up in the direction of the doorway, and you nod as you understand his explanation. Detective Lord seems to be impressed, as he also nods as Sherlock moves over to the doorway. “Elise, seeing her husband murdered, then took her husband’s gun and attempted to kill herself.”

“Well then, we need to find this intruder.” Detective Lord says firmly, and you try to hide your smile when you see Sherlock’s expression.

“Already done.” Sherlock says, walking over to a desk in the adjoining room, and gathering a paper and pen. Detective Lord looks over to you, confused.

“He’s been leaving messages for Elise. His last one threatened to kill her.”

Detective looks flabbergasted, and turns to glare at Sherlock, who was busy writing. “And you don’t think you should have mentioned that earlier Mr Holmes?!”

“It wasn’t relevant.”

“Wasn’t relevant?” Detective Lord mutters under his breath.

Sherlock turns to you, and places the papers he had written in your hands. “The garden bench at the far end of the garden.” He says, and you nod, moving to hide the note where you had been instructed.

“Mr Holmes …”

Sherlock sighs, obviously understanding that he needed to explain himself to present company. “I am going to leave a note for the intruder, one that only he and Mrs Cubitt would be able to understand. He is going to come to the house, and it’s going to need to appear like nothing has happened.”

“Johnson, move all the cars. And clear away the reporters!” The detective instructs to a young officer by the door

“Yes sir.” The young man says, turning and beginning to usher everyone from the room.

“What then?” Detective Lord asks, and you turn to look at Sherlock.

“Then, we wait for him to come to us.”

 

You stand in the library by the window, looking out onto the now completely empty driveway and watching for anyone approaching the house. Sherlock stood at the opposite end of the room, facing the door. You noted that he had a gun clearly in his hands, as did most of the officers hidden around the house. Surely this man was dangerous, and you tried not to think too much about it. 

Suddenly, you see a figure approach the house. He wore a suit, but his long coat over that hid most of his body and face. You gulped, before turning to Sherlock and nodding. He nods also, before pulling out his phone and pressing a button. He sends a message to Detective Lord, and you know that everyone in the house is ready. Sherlock nods to you a moment later, just as a knock sounds at the door. Taking a deep breath, you move away from the curtain, and walk confidently to the entrance of the house.

Sharon’s uniform fitted strangely on your body, and you pull it awkwardly as you move to open the door.

“Evening.” You answer cheerfully, and the man before your frowns.

“Sorry sweetheart, I’m looking for …”

“The Cubitts?” You ask, your voice cracking. You clear your throat, and the American man frowns. “I am Miss McGee, the maid sir.”

“Maid?” The man laughs, and you smile, trying to hide your discomfort.

He steps into the entrance way, and you quickly stand back, avoiding the man’s body crashing into yours as he all but falls into the room. You quickly look at him, and assess the man as he peels off his coat and hands it to you. Uneasy on feet, red eyes, shaking hands … The man was drunk. You breathe a sigh of relief. Sherlock had warned you that he could be high, but you would prefer drunk over that any dya of the week.

“This way …” You say, after hanging up the man’s coat.

Your stomach coils when you notice that the man was looking up and down your body, an expression of amusement on his face.

“Where’s Elise?” The man asks casually, standing much too close to you for your own liking. You try to walk further forward, but the man doubles his speed, crashing into your back.

You try not to flinch. This wasn’t the plan, you think. You needed to get him into the library. “Asleep.” You murmur, internally cursing yourself for not being able to keep your voice from shaking.

“Really?” The man drawls, before wrapping an arm around your front and pulling your body against his. You felt sick, but managed to keep your body still and calm. “When did you start working here doll?”

The man leans down to your exposed neck, with the uniform you were wearing leaving the skin open. He runs his lips along the flesh, and you shudder. He smiles against your skin, and you hope that he doesn’t think the movement is from fear.

“A few months ago.” You say casually, managing to pull away casually to speak to the man directly.”

“Really? Now that’s interesting …”

The man approaches you, and you back up further into the hallway. Just a few more steps backwards, and you would be in line with the police waiting. You knew they were stood upstairs on the landing, and you tried to calmly lead the man into their sight.

“Interesting?” You ask, flattening down your uniform. “Do you want to wait in the library? I’ll go and get Mrs Cubitt.”

“That’s ok.” The man approaches you once again, but this time, he doesn’t let you move away. He grips your upper arms, pulling you towards himself. “I much rather talk to you doll.”

“Me?” You try to keep your voice light, but no one could mistake your unease.

“I’ve stood outside the house for two months, and I’ve never seen you before …” The grip on your arms becomes tighter, and you wince.

“I …”

“Who else is here?” The man’s flirtatious demeanour has gone now, and he shakes you roughly. “Where’s Elise?”

“Dead.” A voice comes from behind you, and you sag in relief

“What?” The man gripping you sounds genuinely shocked for a moment, before his face hardens and he scoffs. “No she’s not. She sent me a message …”

“Come tonight. It’s safe. Tell no one.” Sherlock says calmly, and as he moves into your line of vision, you see that he has a gun firmly trained on the man before you.

“No …” The man shakes his head, just as more police surround you.

“Easy …” You hear Detective Lord address his men, obviously referring to the fact that there target was currently using you as a human shield.

“After you shot and killed her husband, Elsie Cubitt turned her gun on herself …”

“NO!” The man screams, and in one smooth movement, he turns your body around, and pulls you facing outward, You face Sherlock, and the detective smiles.

Slowly, as the man behind you begins to move backwards, heading to the door, you reach down underneath your short dress. The police all stay still, waiting for you to make your move. You smile at Sherlock quickly, drowning out the sound of cries and curses coming from the man holding you. Just as you reach what you need, the man holding you gets to his coat, and pulls out the gun hidden within it. You curse yourself internally for not finding that before, and note from Sherlock’s expression that he obviously isn’t happy you missed that either.

Before the man can turn the gun towards you, you press the button on your weapon, and it sparks to life. You press it against the man’s leg between your own, and quickly pull away from his arms before the electricity running through your Taser can reach you. It is too late though, and the volts shock you from the arms holding your body. You cry out in pain, just as the man falls behind you with a deafening thud. You are pulled forward quickly, before you hear a distant voice that you recognise as Doctor Hilton. He tells someone not to touch you, and so you lie, writing on the floor for a few seconds as you hear people approach the fallen man behind you. The Taser still sounds in the distance, and you hope that your assailant is still thoroughly enjoying its effect.

 

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, helping you sit up. You are alone in the hallway, with the noises from outside signalling that the police had moved outside with Mr Cubitts killer.

“I’ve had worse …” You murmur, and move to stand.

“That was a stupid plan.” Sherlock says, holding you more firmly when you sway on your feet.

“It worked.” You reply, somewhat cheerfully, trying not to wince from the pressure Sherlock was putting on your already bruising arms.

Detective Lord comes back into the house with a smile, and shakes Sherlock’s spare hand, the other busy helping you stand upright.

“Thank you Mr Holmes. Without you, well I don’t think we would have been able to catch him” Sherlock smiles, and begins to help you move outside. “That’s a very dangerous man we’ve put away Mr Holmes.”

“What?” You whisper, but Detective Lord catches your comment.

“Mr Abe Slaney, one of the most dangerous men in Chicago.”

“What!” You say, your voice getting much louder. You turn to glare at Sherlock, and Detective Lord very wisely decides it was time for him to leave you and the detective alone.

“You were perfectly safe.” Sherlock says, sounding almost annoyed that you would think otherwise.

“I didn’t feel safe …” You mutter, before watching as the police van holding Abe Slaney drove away.

“Mr Holmes?” You and Sherlock both turn to see Doctor Hilton, stood by a waiting ambulance. He looks wary to approach you, and you wonder if it is because of his fascination with Sherlock, or because he had just seen you taser a man in the leg.

Sherlock looks down at you, silently asking whether you felt like  trip to A&E was necessary. You did feel bad, dizzy and sick, but the last thing that you wanted to do was spend a night alone in a strange hospital.

“I just want to go home.” You murmur, and Sherlock nods.

“Detective Lord …” Sherlock calls to the man waiting by his police car, and you wonder if Sherlock’s aversion to travelling in police vehicles didn’t count when his assistant had been tasered.

Smiling, you climb into the back seat of the car with Sherlock, turning to look at the grand house for one final time before you drive away, heading back to London.

 

“Are you going to explain it?”

You and Sherlock sit on a mostly empty train back to London. You took the seat opposite the detective, feeling a little too queasy to travel backwards all the way back to the capital.

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock asks, sounding amused. No doubt he was finding it humorous that you were trying to stay awake and make conversation, rather than just give in and go to sleep.

“I think you owe me …” You say, and soften the comment with a smile.

Sherlock sighs, before looking out of the train window. It was pitch black outside, and you wondered what the man was staring at with such interest.

“Elsie’s father is head of a prominent criminal circle in Chicago. Abe Slaney was one of his associates, and was apparently promised to Elise.”

“Promised, you mean like an arranged marriage?” You ask, shifting in your chair to try and stop your head from involuntarily lolling onto the window.

Sherlock nods “She fled Chicago, ultimately trying to flee her father and his associates.”

“How did he find her?”

“I don’t know. But we can assume that it was by nefarious means,”

“And the figures?” You ask, referring to the strange dancing men that had started the case.

“It’s how I recognised him. It’s a cypher code that the circle use to communicate. They’ve been found linked to Elsie’s father for years.”

“So he knew she would understand it …”

“Exactly. And no one else could.”

“Poor Elise.” You mutter, your eyes drifting shut against the cool glass of the train window.

“Why did you tell him she died?” You ask Sherlock after a few minutes of silence. He turns to you surprised, obviously thinking you had been asleep.

“She won’t be seeing him again.” Sherlock mutters, and you smile.

“You wanted him to suffer, and now he has to live his life thinking he killed her.” Sherlock nods, and you laugh once. “That’s harsh.”

“He deserved it.” Sherlock puts so much venom in his voice, and you almost flinch.

“What happens now?”

“Abe Slaney will be taken back to Chicago.” Sherlock says simply, as you begin to see some of the glowing lights of London in the distance.

“Good.” You murmur intent on getting at least a few minutes of sleep before you return to London.

You remain silent up until you arrive at Baker Street. Sherlock had been working for days straight without a break, and you don’t blame him when he heads straight for his bedroom when you return. Getting into your room, you look at your bag on the floor, and sigh when you notice that it is untouched. It was irrational for you to worry, but you did anyway. You pull out your phone, and are surprised to see you have a message from non-other than Mycroft Holmes.

_“Remember, tomorrow evening 8pm sharp. Anthea will collect you from Baker Street. Until then, Mycroft Holmes.”_

You smile as you crawl into bed. Of course Mycroft would text in full sentences. Suddenly, your eyes shoot open in the dark, and you groan.

“Oh god ...” You mumble to yourself “What the hell am I going to wear?”


	6. The Norwood Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Arthur Conan Doyle, The Norwood Builder. A young London solicitor appears at 221B Baker Street claiming that he is innocent of a terrible crime, and only Sherlock Holmes himself can prove it and potentially save his life.

“And to the left …” You turn your head as instructed by your good friend John Watson. As you do, your muscles spasm in your neck and shoulders, and you quickly draw a hand up to clutch at the painful area.

“It hurts” You all but moan, and John stands back, moving away from where you were sat on the sofa.

“Yes.” The man says, and you note his bitter tone “Getting hit with a Taser will do that to you.” John moves to his first aid kit sat on the table, but not before he sends a cold look towards the detective in the room.

Sherlock sits silently in his chair by the fire. His eyes are closed, and his hands are steeped beneath his chin. You knew the position well enough, and you begin to worry that your conversation with John was going to distract him.

John, apparently finding what he was looking for in his kit, moves back over towards you. He pulls a chair from the table with him so he can take a place near to you.

“It wasn’t his fault.” You murmur, looking into the eyes of your good friend and Doctor. John doesn’t respond, just angrily scowls at the blue ice pack that he presses against your now pounding neck “John” You try again to gain a response, but the man stays resolutely silent.

You sigh in exasperation, but the movement causes your muscles to move in an odd way. You can’t suppress the yelp of pain, and John applies more pressure to your injured body with the ice pack. 

“Your muscles are sprained, in your neck and shoulder.” The man recites in his professional tone. He moves your hand to hold the pack in his stead, before reaching over and bringing the medical kit to rest on his knees “You’ll have a headache, and some dizzy spells …”

“No more than usual” A monotone voice interrupts.

You smile at Sherlock’s attempt at humour, but don’t raise your head in the man’s direction, in fear that you’ll be reprimanded by the Doctor. You often joked that you permanently had a headache, what with living with Sherlock and all of his craziness. The joke doesn’t seem to go down well with John however.

Seeing the expression on John’s face darken to one of anger, you hold back a gulp, instead watching as he turns quickly to face Sherlock, who was still sat across the room from you both.

“Seriously?” The man growls, and Sherlock looks taken aback.

“What?”

“That’s all you’re going to do. Make a joke about it …” John continues, and you don’t think you had ever heard him this mad before. It is different, and you make a mental note to never make the man mad yourself.

“John …” You try to raise your head, but the movement causes another huge lance of pain to shoot up your shoulder and neck. John sighs, before turning back in his chair.  You notice that he pulls something out of his medical kit, and begins to unpack it. You watch the man’s actions closely, even though at that moment you wanted nothing more to try and communicate with Sherlock Holmes.

“She’s just a kid Sherlock, and you nearly got her killed.” John continues to growl, but he sends you a kind look of pity as he moves your arm, and wraps what you now realise is a sling around your shoulder.

“Don’t be ridiculous …”

“Ridiculous?!” John snaps, this time rising from his chair and moving over to where Sherlock now stands by the fire.

“Yes. I had everything completely under control …” Sherlock responds quietly, and you realise with some surprise that the two men were attempting to leave you out of the conversation.

“Bollocks” John snaps, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, I am still right here …”

Your voice seems to finally grab the two men’s attention, and they both turn to look at you.

John sighs, before sending a quick look to his friend and detective. Sherlock’s eyes actually widen as he deciphers the look from John, one you couldn’t even see yourself. “Listen,” John begins quietly, turning back towards where you sat on the long and worn sofa “I don’t think …” The man trails off, before moving slowly to sit back in the chair he had just vacated.

“What?” You ask, worried at the sudden change of tone in the man.

“John.” Sherlock warns from across the room, but you don’t move your gaze from the man sat opposite you.

“I don’t think that this is a good idea.”

You shift in your spot on the sofa, wincing slightly as the movement jostles your protesting muscles. “What do you mean?” You ask, trying to keep your voice light and not to give away the fact that you had just caused yourself more pain.

“You’ve had a good run with Sherlock …”

“You want me to leave.” You interrupt, suddenly realising what your friend was trying to say. John sighs and bows his head, and your gaze snaps over to where Sherlock stands, looking distractedly into the fire. “Both of you?”

Sherlock turns back towards you and John, and crosses his arms over his chest. “No.” He replies simply, and the tension still filling the room means you can’t even smile in response to his answer.

“You’re going to get her killed. Or worse …”

Before you have time to question John on what he believes could be worse than being killed, Sherlock sighs, something very uncharacteristic of him, and begins pacing in front of the fireplace.

“She’s the head of the homeless network John.” Sherlock says, his force sounding low and controlled, like he was trying desperately not to say something he shouldn’t. “I …” The detective pauses his manic pacing for a moment, before turning to look at his friend “I need her.”

Your eyes bulge in shock at Sherlock’s revelation, but John just smiles; an expression that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, before getting up slowly and moving over to his friend.

“I swear Sherlock” John begins in a low voice, obviously attempting and failing to ensure that you can’t hear him. “If this is just some psychology bullshit; trying to mess with my mind to make me think you care …”

“I assure you, it’s not.” Sherlock answers clearly, and loudly.

John appears flustered for a moment, before passing a look between you and Sherlock. The detective raises an eyebrow in your direction, and you smile in response.

“Ok.” John sighs, seemingly pacified. “Ok fine, but next time …”

“I’ll ensure not to let the psychopathic murderer have access to a weapon.” Sherlock says, completely deadpan.

“You know John, technically I tasered myself.” You reply, just as the man had begun to walk over to his medical kit and begin to pack away everything that he had been using.

“Shut up.” The Doctor grumbles, making you laugh loudly in response. You wince at the movement, causing John to roll his eyes and Sherlock to smile.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson angry voice rises from downstairs, and you all stop to listen closely. Loud footsteps signal that someone was running up the staircase to your flat, and unexpectedly a young man, covered in sweat and with a bright red face, all but skids into the room.  

“Can I help you?” Sherlock asks, and the flustered man turns in his direction, completely ignoring both yourself and John, who shrugs at you before making his way downstairs. You smile in farewell, before turning back to the man in the room, who was apparently your new client.

“Mr Holmes? Sherlock Holmes?” The young man asks, looking at Sherlock who had moved to sit in his seat.

“Yes …” Sherlock drawls, looking closely at the man and no doubt making some deductions to try and determine who this person was, and what they could want.  

“Oh thank goodness you’re here Mr Holmes. I need your help …”

“Murder?” Sherlock asks, so casually that he could have said the word ‘tea?’ instead. He waves a hand in the direction of John’s chair opposite him, and the man moves to take a seat.

“Well …” The young man begins, before suddenly stopping, as if he had only just heard what the detective had said. “How on earth …”

“It’s what I do, Mr …?”

“I’m John Hector McFarlan.” The man announces; putting down his briefcase and peeling off his sweat covered suit jacket.

“You say that like we should know who you are?” You answer, smiling slightly in amusement at the mans flustered appearance.

“Oh, haven’t you seen today’s news? Or read the paper?”

“No” Sherlock says quickly, before moving over to the dining room table and spinning his laptop towards himself, no doubt to have a quick search of his new client.

“We’ve just got back.” You explain, and Mr McFarlan nods, wiping away some sweat that had begun to collect on his forehead as he does so. “Are you ok?” You ask, noticing that John appeared to be thoroughly out of breath, even though he was sitting comfortably in John Watson’s chair.

“Oh yes, forgive me. I ran here.”

“You … ran?” You question, taking in the man’s formal attire and wondering why on earth someone dressed so smartly would feel the need to run to the point of exhaustion.

“Yes.” John McFarlan responds to you with a small smile. Sherlock makes a noise from his spot reading the computer screen, and both you and the new client turn to look at him. “I promise you Mr Holmes, everything that you will read is not true.”

“I should hope so …” Sherlock says coldly, snapping his laptop lid shut and moving to stand near you where you sit on the sofa; moving away from the man currently sat in John’s vacant chair. “Otherwise, there is a murderer in my living room.”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” You ask, watching the strange look passing between the man and his guest who was sat by the fire.

“It would seem that Mr McFarlane is involved in the murder of one …” Sherlock turns then, slowly heading back to the computer on the table, and with a swift motion the laptop screen lights up, showing an article from an online newspaper. “Jonas Oldacre.” Sherlock reads, and he doesn’t seem to recognise the name.

On hearing the name, John McFarlane actually gulps, and shifts awkwardly in his chair. “I beg you Mr Holmes, I need your help …”

“Mrs Hudson’s alright.” John says as he swiftly enters the room. The man sounds slightly out of breath, and you wonder how longer the good Doctor had been stood downstairs with Mrs Hudson.

“Good.” Sherlock replies simply, before making his way back over to his chair by the fire. He looks at John McFarlane closely, his eyes squinting as he eyes the man suspiciously.

“What’s going on?” John asks, appearing thoroughly confused. Obviously Mrs Hudson hadn’t been able to provide him with any answers as to who the man was either.

“We have a new client.” Sherlock replies simply, and you turn to gape at the detective.

“What?! Sherlock, you just said …”

“That he is  _involved_ in the murder. I think Mr McFarlane has to right to give us his account of the incident.”

John turns to give you a look, and you shrug in response.

“When you two are quite finished, sit down John. I have a feeling that this will take a while.”

“I’ve got to go Sherlock.” John replies simply with an apologetic expression. Sherlock sighs, seemingly exasperated, but doesn’t argue that his friend should stay. John walks over to you, adjusts your brace supporting your injured arm and shoulder, before whispering to you so neither John McFarlane nor Sherlock could hear him. “Watch him”

“Sherlock or the suspected murderer?” You ask, smiling slightly at John’s amused expression.

“Both.”

John leaves then, probably to see his now heavily pregnant wife. You had never met Mary, and wondered when you would have the pleasure. Suddenly, your mind takes a dangerous turn, and you mull over the idea that maybe this had been purposeful. Maybe John didn’t want you to meet. After all, you had plenty of opportunities; it wasn’t as if you were suddenly going to disappear from 221b. You didn’t have anywhere else to go, at least not yet.

“I’ve been followed here from my office Mr Holmes.” Hearing John’s trembling voice pulls back your attention to the present, and you shift to face the new client and Sherlock who was sat opposite him. “I feared that they wouldn’t let me give my side of the story …”

“That is what interviews are for …” Sherlock mumbles, before moving to look out of the window of the flat and onto the street beyond. The detective couldn’t stay still, something that you had equally gotten used to, and annoyed you at the same time.

“You saw the news reports Mr Holmes, this isn’t a case anymore. This is a witch hunt” John McFarlane says to the detective, before wiping his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. He was pale and shaking, but you don’t let his demeanour distract you. After all, as Sherlock had pointed out before, he could be a murderer.

“Who was following you?” Sherlock asks, before with perfect timing, blue lights shine into the dim room, and the detective smiles, mostly to himself.

“Speak of the devil” You mutter, and Sherlock turns to look at you. He frowns, and you wonder what he was thinking about …

Suddenly, a loud thumping sounds as the police bang on the door downstairs, followed by the footsteps of Mrs Hudson moving quickly to answer the door.

“Ah, Lestrade.” Sherlock announces as the man sweeps into the room with a stoic expression on his face. “We were wondering when you might Grace us with your presence...”

“What the hell happened to you?!” Lestrade asks loudly, glaring at the bandage on your shoulder and for a moment being completely distracted from the suspect sat not two feet from him.

“Well, I starting working with Sherlock …” You begin sarcastically, but Lestrade doesn’t seem to be amused, instead turning to now glare at Sherlock.

“An unfortunate incident involving a Taser.” Sherlock explains simply, and you shift awkwardly on the sofa, not really liking all the attention you were suddenly receiving. “How can we help you Lestrade?”

“I think you know the answer to that …” Lestrade replies, looking over to the young pale man sat in John’s chair.

“Oh yes, Lestrade allow me to introduce…”

“A suspected murderer.” Lestrade interjects, and another police officer you recognise quietly steps into the room behind the man. Sally. “Hang on, what the hell is he doing on your living room?!”

You try and fail to hold in a nervous laugh, and Sally turns to you with a taciturn expression and shakes her head. That stops you immediately, and you honestly become a little bit upset by her cold action.

“Well Lestrade, Mr McFarlane was about to give us his statement. Now that you are here, we can proceed.”

“Now?” John asks incredulously, and you swear you see the man gulp.

“I don’t see why not.” Lestrade sighs, before pulling out a notepad.

You do the same, reaching to gather the notebook John Watson had given you. You turn to Sherlock, and the man reaches into his pocket for a pen, and wordlessly throws it to you. You manage to catch it despite being one handed, and both you and Sherlock smile childishly at your victory. Sally meanwhile, had been watching you both with a curious expression.

Sherlock sits in his chair opposite his new client, holding his hands under his chin, and Lestrade and Sally stand in the middle of the room, waiting for Mr McFarlane to begin.  

“I was having a typical day at my office in London. I’m a small time solicitor; mainly handling things like wills from my clients. Well yesterday morning, a man I recognised came in to see me …”

“Jonas Oldacre.” Lestrade says, before writing that down as John nodded in agreement.

“He used to be good friends with my mother before she died, and so I hadn’t seen him since I was a child. Probably around 15 years ago. Well, he comes into my office with a small scrap of paper, and tells me he would like to me to rewrite and sort his will. Apparently, Jonas wrote the entire thing on the train on the way to see me in London from his home in the country.”

“The train?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock looks slightly annoyed that the man’s statement had been interrupted.

“That’s what he said yes. I did think it was strange, but then again, the idea of him visiting me was strange in itself.”

“And the Will itself?”

“It was a scrap of paper like I said which wasn’t particularly odd. Many of my clients have ideas and changes that they wish to be made in their wills, and so write everything down whenever they can on whatever they can. No, that’s not was strange. What was strange was that … Mr Jonas Oldacre had left everything in his possession to … me.”

“And what exactly did this entail?” Lestrade asks once again, before crossing his arms over his chest. John gulps, before he continues.

“His home and business in the country. He’s a carpenter you see, and has his own workshop and studio at the back of the property.”

You turn to Sherlock and he nods at you. You smile proudly before writing down ‘ _used present tense, not was a carpenter_ ’.

“Go on …” Sherlock says, turning from you to look at his new client.

“Well I was shocked, but Jonas claimed that he had no relatives, and would have liked to leave everything to my mother, but what with her dying years ago, he decided to leave everything to me.”  John pauses for moment, and you wondered if the man was holding back tears. He takes a deep breath, then begins speaking once again “He invited me to his house yesterday evening to finalise the paperwork, and I went. I left around midnight, but forgot my coat and umbrella, as it was very late and I was exhausted. Well, this morning I woke to hear that the man had been murdered, and I was a suspect!”

“The murder weapon,” Lestrade says, holding up a picture of a black umbrella “And your DNA was all over the house. You were the last person to see Jonas Oldacre alive.”

“I’ve told my story …” John says, looking to Sherlock with sad eyes. He suddenly looked exhausted. “That’s all I know. I’m sorry …”

“Satisfied?” Lestrade asks, turning to Sherlock with almost a comical told-you-so expression on his face.

“Not often …” The detective replies quietly, before sending you a quick look from your spot on the other side of the room.

You frown at Sherlock, wondering what he meant by that, but you are both interrupting by John MacFarlane, who begins to become somewhat hysterical …

“I understand how this looks Detective, but I assure you …

“So…” Lestrade interrupts, and Sherlock stands and moves back over to his laptop sitting on the table. “A man you barely know happens to come to you with a Will, leaving everything he possessed to you on the event of his death. The next day, when you visit him, he winds up dead.”

“I …”

Lestrade doesn’t the let the man speak, just continues his tirade, gradually becoming louder. “And the only person to be in contact with Jonas Oldacre for …”

“Yes thank you Lestrade.” Sherlock interrupts, and the man scowls at his friend and colleague “I think the rest of this can be said at the Station.”

“The station?” John repeats; his voice sounding much higher and wavering more than it had whilst he had been recounting his story.

Sherlock steps back, giving Lestrade a quick look, which the police detective seems to understand immediately, as he nods slightly before signalling to Sally. The woman steps forward, revealing a pair of hand cuffs that she had been hiding in her coat pocket.

“You’re under arrest under the suspicion of …” You watch as Lestrade reads John his rights and reason for his arrest, whilst Sherlock moves near you by the sofa, out of the way.

“What are you doing?” You whisper to Sherlock, trying to catch on to the man’s train of thought.

“This is a criminal investigation, with a key witness being the only suspect in a murder.” Sherlock replies quietly, before smiling down at you. “My favourite, but best to handle at a police station … with witnesses. I wouldn’t want anything the man says to be off the record …”

“You coming?” Lestrade asks Sherlock as you watch your latest client be escorted away by Sally.

“Of course.” The detective responds brightly “Can’t let you have all the fun.”

Lestrade scoffs, and rolls his eyes, but you know it is all in fondness. Ever since you had been working with Sherlock, you had noticed how well the two men seemed to get on, despite all the disagreements and drama.

“You gonna be alright sweetheart?” Lestrade asks you kindly, eyeing your injured arm that rests in the sling John had given you.

“Yeah sure.” You reply with a warm smile, before turning to Sherlock who was swiftly buttoning up his coat. “Have fun” You tell the man, and Lestrade rolls his eyes once again, although fondly.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but gives you a quick look of excitement before he turns and races down the stairs. You were half surprised that the man didn’t say something along the lines of ‘The game is on!’ like he usually would in this situation. You wondered whether it was because of the presence of Sally and Lestrade, but then again you didn’t think even that would stop him from being his usual eccentric self.  

You were just about to move to find something to do, when a small knock comes from downstairs. You frown for a moment, not having a clue who that could be. It was much too quiet and reserved for a worried client, and Sherlock or John would just bound up the stairs.

You listen for a few seconds, and with Mrs Hudson not making a move to answer the door, you slowly stand and make your way downstairs.

You pull the door open slowly, worried for a moment that you were about to meet one of Sherlocks so called ‘enemies’. Before you can change your mind, the door all but flies open, and an impatient woman stalks into the hallway and closes an umbrella.

“Anthea?”

The woman’s name sounds more like a question than a statement from your lips, and the waiting assistant to Mycroft rolls her eyes, before brushing past you and walking deeper into the building.

You follow Anthea up the staircase quickly, internally wondering if she knew that Sherlock had just left, and had been waiting for that exact moment. You didn’t really know if the two got on, but what you did know about them both led you to believe that they probably didn’t.

As Anthea enters the living room, she places down two bags you hadn’t even noticed, before raising her perfectly crafted eyebrow at your injured arm.

“Oh, just something that happened on a case. It’s not serious …” You trail off, shrugging slightly before remembering that jostling your arms and shoulders like that would not be a good idea in your condition.

“For this evening …” The woman says, turning to gesture at the two, extremely extravagant looking bags sitting on the table.

“Oh god, how could I forget!?” You exclaim, clapping your injured hand on your forehand “I completely forgot!”

Anthea smiles, “I take it you haven’t told Sherlock about your meeting with his brother …” The woman says, before crossing her arms. You wonder if she was more amused than annoyed by this little fact.

“No …” You all but whine, “I didn’t even think about … Do you think I should?” You ask Anthea, beginning to suddenly panic, and you didn’t really know why.

“Sherlock seems to be busy.” Anthea replies, and you don’t really know if that was an observation, or a reason to keep your little meeting with his brother to yourselves.

“Everything alright dear?” A kind voice says from the doorway, and you turn just in time to see the face of your landlady peeking into the living room.

“Yes Mrs Hudson.” You reply with a smile, before clearing your thought awkwardly. Suddenly you remember your manners, and turn to introduce the two women who were currently stood in the room with you. “This is Anthea; she works for Mycroft.”

Anthea pulls her phone from her jacket pocket, and begins to type something. You stand awkwardly in between the two wome; Mrs Hudson sending you a smile from the doorway and Anthea stood silently next to the living room table.

“Lovely to meet you dear.” Mrs Hudson says kindly, looking at the woman with a warm expression, but you could tell that she was also closely observing this new acquaintance.

“Likewise Mrs Hudson.” Anthea replies simply, still typing something furiously on her phone.

“Well, I’ll be downstairs if you need me dear.” Mrs Hudson says to you, and with one final glance to your companion, the woman disappears back down the staircase to her flat, humming to herself as she does.

“Thank you!” You call after her as she leaves, before turning back to the awaiting Anthea. “Was there anything else?” You ask awkwardly, trying desperately to contain yourself and not dive on the two bags she had just delivered.

“No.” Anthea replies, before finally pocketing her phone and making her way past you to the doorway. “The car will be here at 8pm sharp. Until tonight.” She says as a farewell, and it does not go unnoticed by you that the young woman gives you a genuine smile as she exits.

You stand in your bedroom wrapped in only a towel; glaring at the two bags resting on your messy double bed. You had taken a long shower, washed your hair, and even managed to put on a little makeup. But the two bags remained unopened and neglected. Anthea hadn’t mentioned to you exactly what these bags contained, and suddenly you had become terrified. What if they were really expensive? You think to yourself as you chew your lip nervously. Although, you reason, Mycroft probably had paid for them himself, so they obviously would be expensive compared to the kind of things you had worn before.

You glanced at the small clock on your bedside table, and nearly gasp in shock when you realise you only had twenty minutes before Anthea would be coming to pick you up. Taking a deep breath, you finally lean forward and gently begin to open one of the packages.

In the larger bag, lies a large grey coat, much like the one Sherlock liked to wear. However, this beautiful coat had a faux fur collar of a similar grey colour to the fabric, and three large buttons down the middle. It was stunning, and you are shocked by how heavy the coat is as you move to place it down on the bed. You think it would last a life time, and it would certainly keep you warm throughout the cold months in London. Finally, having smoothed down the coat and unwrapped it, you move on to the next bag. You don’t recognise the shop name, but have no doubt in your mind that you would never be visiting it for yourself if it was half as posh as the bag itself.

The dress you pull out makes your eyes bulge and your mouth drop open in shock. It was a deep blue, almost navy, but a much to richer colour to be called that. It had long sleeves which you were grateful for, but appeared to be rather figure hugging. You worried your lip for a second; wondering whether or not the dress would even fit you. You hoped it would, as you had never seen a more stunning piece of clothing, and you longed to wear it, even if it was just the once.

You had no idea whether these items were being leant to you, and whether or not Mycroft would want them back, and so you take extra care when placing on the garments. You wince as you pull the dress on over your head, worried that any minute you were going to hear an almighty rip, and Mycroft’s spies would descend from the ceiling and shoot you. You giggle as you wiggle on the dress, pulling the fabric slowly to make it sit straight on your figure.

You barely have any time to admire the beautiful dress, before you glance at the clock and see that you now have only five minutes left. You quickly put on a pair of black pumps Molly had so kindly leant you, before gently picking up the coat and heading downstairs. Tonight was the first night in years that you didn’t have any possessions with you, not even your phone. After all, you were going to be with Mycroft Holmes, and didn’t think that having Sherlock message you form under the table would be such a good idea. Reaching the living room, you gather a small piece of paper and leave a note for Sherlock, informing the detective that you would be back this evening, and would see him later. You didn’t think that the man would be back before you, but thought better safe than sorry as you headed downstairs to wait outside.

You had decided not to wear the sling John had kindly given you. As much as you had appreciated it, the gaudy white bandage was a little bit distracting, and you would hate for it to ruin the way the dress looked. You felt pretty, and noticed a slight bounce in your step as you waited on the pavement next to Speedy’s and quickly buttoned up your new long grey coat. You usually hated the word posh, but tonight you really felt it.  

The long black car appears around the corner a few seconds later, and you almost roll your eyes when you realise that the car had appeared at exactly 8pm sharp, not a moment before or after. You quickly clamber in the back of the vehicle, careful not to dirty your new clothes, and send a smile to Anthea who sat in the back seat. She smiles quickly in return, before pulling out her much loved phone and sending  a quick text message.

You ride the rest of the journey in silence, worrying over what exactly you were going to be doing tonight. It was Christmas Eve after all, and you wondered what the rich and powerful Mycroft Holmes could possibly want to do on such a momentous day.

The car suddenly begins to slow outside a huge stone building, with carvings along the windows and doors, and two huge flags of England and Great Britain on either side of the large entrance. Anthea nods to you as you look out of the car window, obviously answering your internal question. A man approaches the car and opens the door, and you move to climb out after Anthea, who you notice, does so with far more grace than you can manage.

You follow Anthea slowly through the entrance to the huge London building, distractedly looking around and the amazing décor and Christmas decorations that adorn the place.

Music flows from a room deeper in the back of the building, and Anthea pauses to speak to someone quietly as you listen. You can’t quite figure out whether this place was a hotel, a restaurant or some kind of government building. Knowing Mycroft, you think that it is probably a mixture of the three. Anthea finishes speaking, and turns to guide you into the large room you had been looking at. She walks you right to the back of the massive and elaborate room, and you quietly weave around tables and some people standing and having various hushed conversations. It appeared that most people were talking about Christmas, which didn’t shock you. What would surprise you however is if you found Mycroft to be doing the same.

You spot the eldest Holmes stood talking to a small group of three well-dressed gentlemen. Mycroft was speaking animatedly, laughing every now and then and his three companions were watching his completely enraptured. You thought it odd, as Sherlock and even Mycroft had always claimed that he didn’t have friends, but seeing the interaction before you, you would have to disagree.

“Good evening Mycroft.” You greet as he turns and spots you, Anthea stood behind you quietly.

“Good evening.” Mycroft responds in his rich English accent. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen.”

The three men all incline their heads towards Mycroft, and send you a curious glance before they turn to walk away. Mycroft turns and leads you up a few steps at the back of the room, up to a raised platform surrounding by a bannister that gave you a wonderful view of the rest of the room. Whilst you sit down, you notice that Anthea has skilfully managed to disappear, and Mycroft sits opposite you at the small table as a waiter pushes your chair in behind you. It almost makes you blush, but you quickly focus again whilst you listen to Mycroft order some wine, water and food that you couldn’t repeat even if you tried.

“I almost didn’t recognise you.” The man says coolly, eyeing your new attire.

“Oh, yeah.” You reply rather dazed, looking down at your new dress. Your coat was gathered by the waiter after you had hung it on the back of your chair, Part of you wanted to sit on it like an egg and insure you didn’t loose it, but you let him take it, thinking that would probably be considered the proper thing to do. “Thank you by the way.” You continue, smiling shyly at the man opposite you.

“My pleasure. It’s the least I can do, what with you managing to live with my baby brother as long as you have.”

“I’m really grateful to Sherlock. And not just for the room, but for letting me help him with the cases to.”

“I have never known anyone to work with him as you have. Except possibly, for John Watson.”

“Well, John’s probably used to working in dangerous and stressful situations by now.” You reply, watching as a young man approaches the table and wordlessly begins pouring some water into two crystal goblets before you. “I’m sure working with Sherlock must be a piece of cake compared to war.”

“You would think …” Mycroft replies quietly, before trailing off and looking out over the huge room below you both.

“Thank you.” You say quietly to the waiter, before watching as the man nods slightly and walks away, holding the pitcher of water more gracefully than you had ever seen anyone do.

“Sherlock’s busy I take it?” Mycroft asks suddenly, and you nod.

“Yes, a new case appeared this morning. The murder of Jonas Oldacre.”

“Ah yes, a prominent business man from Norwood.”

You nod once again, not at all surprised that Mycroft knew exactly who you were talking about. It had been in the news, you think, although Mycroft usually knew about things like that happening before even the press did.

“Sherlock and Lestrade are at the station now questioning the suspect. They’ll probably be done soon though.” You ponder, before picking up the heavy crystal glace holding your iced water. “No doubt Greg has plans for Christmas.”

Mycroft suddenly claps his hands together, and it’s a movement that immediately reminds you of his younger brother. “So, I’m sure you are wondering what you are doing here.”

“Honestly Mr Holmes, between you and Sherlock, nothing can really surprise me anymore.” You reply with a laugh, just as a waiter approaches the table with a bottle of wine. You smile, watching as you are poured a glass of deep red wine. “I’ve learnt to just go with the flow …”

You and Mycroft talk for hours, mostly about Sherlock. The man listens amazed as you describe living and working with his brother. For the first time in your life, you eat a three course meal, and you can’t wipe the huge smile off your face the entire evening. Mycroft orders at least three bottles of wine, all so expensive that you cringe every time you pick up your glass, afraid that you’ll spill a week’s wages on the stunning oak table.

“I thought in all honestly that you were going to interrogate me or something …” You say after you manage to control your laughter.

Mycroft had been telling you about he and Sherlock’s childhood, and you had almost snorted wine out of your nose after he had done an impression of a young Sherlock.

“I’m not always as stoic as I am at work.” Mycroft replies with a raised eyebrow, before taking a long gulp of white wine.

“But you’re always working …” You muse, eyeing the man over your chocolate dessert.

“Exactly.”

 

“You’re back.” You say with some surprise after you are greeted with the sight of Sherlock sat by the fire after you arrive in the living room at 221B Baker Street.

You are slightly more than tipsy, and can’t help but smile and giggle a little, having no idea what you are even finding to be so amusing.

“Clearly …” Sherlock drawls slowly, eyeing you closely as he does.

You notice that the man was looking at your new outfit, and so you slowly peel off your large coat and smile when you reveal your new dress. You really do wonder whether or not you are drunk at this point, and so clear your throat awkwardly as you walk further into the warm and inviting living room.

“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here so early. Don’t you have a … thingy … client … thingy.” You mumble, moving further into the room and hanging your new coat next to Sherlock’s on the hooks.

You smile as you see your old one resting at the back of the hooks, and wonder whether or not you could donate it to someone else. Although, by the state of it, you wonder if anyone would even want the coat, as it was barely even being held together.

“You’ve been drinking.”

You whirl around to look at the detective, realising suddenly that you had been staring at smiling at your coats for a while longer than you had thought. You giggle again, before clapping a hand over your mouth and nodding to your companion.

“Maybe.” You say simply as you slowly kick off Molly’s pumps and move them to the side of the room.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock asks with a raised eyebrow “Or don’t you even remember consuming the alcohol?”

“Hey, blame your brother. He bought it.” You say dismissively with a wave of your hand; still trying to straighten your shoes as you reply to Sherlock who was still sat in his chair by the fire.

“What?”

You notice that the man seems honestly shocked, maybe even a bit startled to hear this. You hadn’t told him about your little meeting with Mycroft, but wouldn’t have been surprised if his brother had told him, or even if Anthea had mentioned it. As it was, Sherlock really had no idea about it, and frowns, completely bemused.

“Oh, yeah …” You drawl, smiling at the man’s expression. “I had dinner with Mycroft.” You shrug, before holding your cold hands towards the fire in an eerily similar manner to how you did when you were homeless.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks, still with a thoroughly confused expression.

“Yep.” You pop the ‘p’ and amuse yourself with the way the word falls from your slightly drunk mouth.

“With Mycroft?”

“Yep.” You repeat again, and you can’t hold back a laugh when you notice that Sherlock seems to be getting more confused, not less.

“Dinner …” The detective trails off, and you decide to keep quiet for a moment, just watching as the man’s expressions change as he thinks.

“You’re repeating yourself Sherlock. You always have a go at me for doing that.”

“I do not ‘have a go’ at you.” Sherlock replies, mimicking your accent as he quotes your words.

“Erh … yeah you do.” You reply with a nod and a smug expression.

“Sit.” You raise an eyebrow, and Sherlock sighs, before his expression suddenly softens, and he gestures to John’s old chair opposite him. “Please.”

“So, how was Scotland Yard?” You ask conversationally as you all but fall into the chair. Sherlock laughs once and shakes his head, and it is only then that you notice the man was holding a small glass of what looked like whiskey, and was relaxing in just his lounge pants and dressing gown.

“Just exactly how much alcohol did you manage to consume with my brother?” The man asks, and he sounds genuinely curious.

You shake your head, giggling slightly as you do. “You make it sound like a date Sherlock.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Your eyes widen, and you are amused for a few seconds before you realise that Sherlock was being serious, and so you furiously shake your head. “God no! He was basically spying on you … via me.”

“Ah of course.” Sherlock sighs, before leaning back into his chair “The customary interrogation meeting.”

“Customary? As in, this has happened before?” You ask, sitting forward in the chair slightly to be nearer the warm but small fire.

“With John yes. And even Mrs Hudson if I recall correctly. But that was years ago …”

Sherlock trails off, looking into the fire with an unreadable expression. You look at the man for a few moments, just enjoying the peace and quiet and slight buzz you were feeling from all the wine you had consumed with Mycroft. Suddenly, you laugh once again, and Sherlock quickly turns to you, probably wondering what on earth was so amusing this time.

“’If you recall correctly’…” You repeat, trying and failing to sound just like the detective. “You always recall correctly.”

Sherlock laughs again, but this time he doesn’t turn his gaze away from where you sit opposite him. He smiles, before quickly standing and moving over to the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but a small paper bag sits on the table. He picks it up gently, before moving back over towards you.

“Here.” Sherlock holds out the bag towards you, and you take extremely slowly, and the man smiles at your confused expression.

“What’s this?” You ask as he moves to sit back down, taking a swig of his whiskey as he does so.

“I believe that you would call it a Christmas present.”

“Really?” You ask incredulously, suddenly stopping in your exploration of the bag to gawk at him. Of all the things you were expecting, it certainly wasn’t this.

“Really what?” Sherlock asks, and before you can continue, he smiles once again, clearly teasing.

A teasing, whiskey drinking, cheerful, present giving Sherlock Holmes? You were suddenly extremely confused. You open the bag, and see a small pink and yellow box sitting at the bottom of the bag. You are bemused for a few seconds, before you finally reach into the bag and pull out the charming box. Suddenly, you realise what exactly it is you are looking at, as you have seen it before.

Whilst you were working on one of your first cases as Sherlock’s new assistant, you had followed your client’s footsteps to a gorgeous but overly expensive bakery, full of stunning cakes and sweets. You had been staring longingly at the goods whilst Sherlock had been talking to people about your case, and you were stunned to realise that the man had noticed that you were lusting after the amazing looking cakes. You slowly open the box, which much more care and grace than you thought you would manage considering the amount of alcohol you had consumed. Tears spring to your eyes as you see the beautiful cupcake, covered in pure white icing with one crisp looking strawberry on top. You knew it had only cost the man around £5, but to you back then that had seemed to be an extraordinary amount of money. But Sherlock had realised that you had wanted one, this exact cake, and he went back to get it for you. You were stunned, amazed, and so incredibly moved …

“Thank you Sherlock.” You say genuinely, before slowly closing the box back up to place it carefully in the bag. You would eat it tomorrow, if you could bring yourself to do such a thing and ruin the beautiful cake, But after all, it was Christmas day.

“It’s not much, but I have been informed that it is a non-optional social convention.” Sherlock mutters nonchalantly, seemingly not noticing just how much his small gift had moved you.

“It is optional I suppose … but really, thank you.”

You both sit, smiling at each for a few seconds, before Sherlock takes a deep breath, downs his drink, and stands in one smooth movement.

“Well, we have a busy day tomorrow, I’d better get some rest. And you to …”

“I will.” You reply, before suddenly frowning. “What’s tomorrow?”

“We’re travelling to Norwood.”

“Travelling? On Christmas day?” You ask, and Sherlock frowns, apparently realising that was pretty much an impossibility.

“Hmm …” The man muses, before placing his empty glass on the table where your gift had been. “Perhaps not then. But we will be working.”

“Fine by me.” You reply, and smile as the man turns to head to bed. “Good night Sherlock.”

You always said goodnight to Sherlock, no matter when you headed to bed. Tonight however, you were pretty amazed to hear a soft ‘goodnight’ murmured as Sherlock leaves the room, heading to bed.  

You gather your cake in its pristine box, and head up to your own bedroom, a beaming smile on your face the entire way.

You are back working on the John McFarlane case by Boxing Day.

Christmas had been a relatively quiet occasion for you and Sherlock. John and Mary had a small gathering at their London home, to which you and Sherlock had of course been invited. After the detective had declined, rather as if he believed the whole idea was completely ridiculous, you had followed, although politely.

When John had called to wish you both a Merry Christmas, he had all but reprimanded Sherlock for his lack of festivity, or as the man had put it ‘Christmas-ness’. Sherlock had actually pouted at that, making you laugh, and proclaimed that ‘Christmas-ness’ was most definitely not a real word.

Mrs Hudson had come up to the flat in the afternoon, about to go to a Christmas party with some friends, and even inviting you both to join her, although she would have probably known better. Sherlock had managed to decline politely, probably remembering your discussion at lunchtime, and how you had chastised him for being so callous to John. Mrs Hudson had smiled, wished you both a Happy Christmas, and warned you not to make a mess. You had no idea what she had meant by that, until Sherlock had quickly moved to collect a brand new Cluedo, a present from Mycroft apparently, and you had actually gulped. You would be having words with the elder Holmes next time you saw him.

Molly had texted you in the middle of your game, and wished you luck, as well as asking if you would like to join her for a drink afterwards. You asked for a rain check on that, after all you had no idea how long a detective game with Sherlock Holmes was going to take, and you were really having a good time.

The next day, after you had finally recovered from the chaos that was Cluedo with Sherlock, you were both heading off to Norwood village, to see the home and burnt out remains of Jonas Oldacres property.  

“So, what did John say at the station?”         You ask the detective sat opposite you, as the train sped towards Norwood Station.

Sherlock frowns, and tilts his head in a confused gesture. “’Do you want a coffee’?”

You roll your eyes, amused that the brainy detective had not understood you. That was new.

“I meant John McFarlane, not John Watson …”

“Oh.” Sherlock replies somewhat awkwardly, before clearing his throat. “John’s mother was engaged to Jonas when they were teenagers. Apparently it didn’t end well.”

You nod, understanding. “So that’s the connection between the two men then; his mother was engaged to him.” You frown then, and Sherlock pulls out his phone, apparently looking for something to show you. “That’s not really a lot to go on.”

Sherlock reaches over the table in between you on the train, and holds up a photograph of a damaged picture frame. You notice that it was in a police evidence bag, so assume that this is something important to do with the case.

“John McFarlane only discovered this after his mother’s death a few years ago,” Sherlock explains as you zoom in on the photo.

“Bloody Hell …” You mutter, finally getting a closer look.

“Jonas Oldacre received the picture as a gift from John’s mother. It was sent out to a lot of people as a wedding favour when the McFarlane’s got married” Sherlock explains, ignoring your little outburst. “He shot a hole in it, and then sent it back to her. John asked his father about it, and he told him the whole story.”

“So Jonas would have had every reason to hate John then, if he hated his mother and the man she married.”

Sherlock nods, and takes the phone back from you. “Jonas Oldacre made many violent threats towards the McFarlanes over the years.”

“Because she didn’t marry him?”

Sherlock nods “Apparently.”

“And Jonas was, jealous? Obsessed?”

“Something like that. He hated the McFarlane family, and wanted to ensure that they knew that. It’s why John’s parents insured that he hadn’t had any contact with Jonas. Now that both of his parents are dead, there was nothing to stop Jonas from contacting John.”

“But why?” You ask “Why would a man who hated the family leave everything to John in his will?”

“Good question.”

 

Norwood village was stunningly beautiful. It was small, and that alone was enough to make you fall in love with it, but with the slight dusting of snow, it appeared more like a winter wonderland. Sherlock managed to get a taxi outside the small train station, and you both arrived at Jonas Oldacres home moments later, only to be greeted with what must have been at least five police cars, and one huge fire engine.

As you exit the taxi and turn to walk up the path to the house, you notice a familiar face stood before you.

“Lestrade?” You ask, bemused as to the man’s sudden appearance.

“Hello” The man says jovially “Had a good Christmas then you two?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock questions with a sigh, finally meeting you both outside the house.

“It’s my case now; I was the one to get McFarlane after all.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actually say anything in response to that.  As the two men begin to have a little conversation, you notice something on the verge leading up to the semi-detached home. A small pile of stones were arranged in a neat little pile, with a penny coin meticulously placed on top. You knew that sign well enough, but hadn’t seen it in years …

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, and you falter for a moment.

“Probably nothing …” You murmur, just as a young police officer runs down to greet Lestrade.

You walk around the back of the huge house to the place where Jonas’ workshop had once been. All that was left now was blackened wood and ash, and some men were busily chopping down some of the timbers to make it safe. You wince as you look at the damage, it was  certainly extensive.  

“Any witnesses?” Sherlock asks, but you can’t tear your eyes away from the ash covered rubble before you.

“One Sir, a … Mrs Lexington.” The Officer reads, and Lestrade nods.

“And the … organic remains?” Sherlock continues, looking over to where the office once sat.

“Bagged up and taken to the morgue for inspection.” The officer continues, nodding over to where the remains had been discovered. “Don’t know how much use they’ll be though, it was just bones at ash.”

“That must’ve been a very hot fire.” Sherlock murmurs, before looking over towards you. “Alright?”

“Yeah, fine.” You look over to your friend and send him a tight smile, and he seems mollified.

“This way please Mr Holmes …” The officer continues as Lestrade begins talking to someone as he enters the main house.

“Ah, about bloody time!” A female voice suddenly yells.

An older woman wearing a huge green coat of a pair of pyjamas suddenly appears from around the side of the building. Sherlock’s eyes squint as he looks at her, and the woman all but marches over towards him.

“Excuse me?” The man questions, and you hide your smile.

“I’ve been talking to the police for three weeks now about all those bloody homeless rats skirting around the house. Are you finally here to get rid of them?”

“We’re here inquiring about the death of Jonas Oldacre.” You interrupt, feeling rather defensive against this loud mouthed lady. “I believe you knew him?” You manage to ask sweetly, and the woman falters for a moment.

“He was my neighbour for twenty years. Tragic what happened, to be killed in your own home …”

“You gave a statement I presume?” Sherlock interrupts, and the woman nods.

“Yes, to that chap there.” The woman nods over to a young man walking around the edge of the rubble, seemingly oblivious. “Saw John McFarlane walk into the house around 7pm, stayed well after midnight, then he left.”

“And these homeless people, are they causing you any problems?” Sherlock continues, and you grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something rather unprofessional.

“Yes! By bloody hanging around all the time. They’ll get nothing round here though, neither from me or Oldacre. He hated them!”

“Thank you for your time Mrs Lexington.” Sherlock replies, before he leads you both around the front of the house.

You didn’t even bother to ask how the man had figured out who the woman was, and you were too tempted to turn around and have a little chat with the woman to speak. Sherlock must have sensed your unease, as he completely ignored her comments as he walks away.

“Sherlock …” You pull on the detectives arm for a moment, leading him over to where you had seen the small pile of stones. You point down at it, and when Sherlock just shrugs you smile. The detective didn’t know what it was, but you did. “That is a traveller’s sign; I haven’t seen it in ages. It means that the homes are hospitable, and it’s like a message to others that you may be able to get charity from there.”

“Mrs Lexington seemed to maintain that she never aided any homeless.”

“Well she’s lying.” You say coldly, and Sherlock smiles.

“There’s one way to find out.”

It takes only a few hours to discover where all the homeless people were living. Just outside the village was a huge bridge that was no longer used due to a motorway being built nearby, and the community had made it there meeting point. Apparently, as a kind elderly man in the village had informed you, many people stopped off at the village on their way into London, and some even got work at local farms. The man believed that Jonas Oldacre himself had once hired a ‘gentleman of the road’ as he had put it, which was interesting, very interesting.  

As you approach the meeting point, you immediately notice that there was only one homeless person to show up. You wondered whether it was because it was still relatively early, and hoped you would be able to get more people to question as the evening went on.

You and Sherlock sit at a distance from each other around the huge open pit fire so as not to cause suspicion. The man had found some alarmingly dirty clothes, and you had just worn some of your own that you had carried with you on habit. You looked like two homeless people warming themselves by a fire, which is exactly what the detective had wanted.

You shift on the muddy ground, and move to casually warm your freezing cold hands. As you do, an older man sat near you looks over, and gives you a toothless smile. You smile back, and can sense Sherlock shift from his position near you.

“So, where are you from sweetheart?” The man asks kindly, stirring a cold can of beans as he addresses you.

“Manchester.” You answer truthfully, not really knowing when you decided to use your actual story as a cover.

“Ah, a northerner. I guessed as much …”

“It’s not exactly northern.” You scoff, and the man sends you another toothless grin.

“It’s north ain’t it.” The older man replies with a shrug. “So, what brings you all the way down ‘ere?”

“Just …” You trail off, trying not to obviously look over to Sherlock, whose greasy black hair was poking out from over a ripped sleeping bag.

The man looks at you closely for a few seconds, before suddenly exhaling and nodding to himself. “Oh I see.”

“See what?” You ask, startled.

“You’re running.”

You laugh once without humour. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Boyfriend?” You shake your head, and the man doesn’t miss a beat before he asks “Girlfriend?”

“Family.” You answer, suddenly worried that you were giving too much away.

Sherlock had always told you to weave the truth into lies, to make them more believable, but you had a sudden feeling that this encounter was going to take your genuine honesty. After all, you weren’t really in disguise this time. This is who you were, a homeless travelling young woman.

“Well, count yourself lucky lass. Not everyone on God’s green earth can say they have family.” The man continues, before placing down his now empty bean can and beginning to lick his family.

“I used to …” You say quietly.

“What happened?” The man probes; leaning back as if settling himself in for a story.

You wrap your arms firmly around your torso, almost as if you were subconsciously trying to defend yourself.

“C’mon, share your story. I’m sure we’re all interested to hear it!”

“Please …” A small voice says from across the fire, and it takes you a few seconds before you realise that the small gruff Scottish voice belonged to Sherlock.

Taking a deep breath, you decide ‘what the hell’ and begin to delve into your story, hopefully gaining the man’s trust as you speak.

“I was ten when my mum died. She had been sick for years, so it wasn’t really a shock or anything. We lived together in Manchester, and didn’t really have any money.” You say with a shrug, remembering how that really hadn’t mattered to either of you. “She left me a little bit though, and social services moved me to my father’s house to a town an hour out of London.”

You glance over at the old man, and he nods, almost as if telling you to continue. “I found out I had two older brothers, who had chosen to live with my father when they had divorced. She was pregnant with me when she left, so I never even knew they existed until I went to live with them.” You grit your teeth, preparing yourself. “It was alright for a while. I was shy, but they didn’t seem to care. I lived with them, kinda happily for two years, but then when I was twelve my older brothers got … handsy.”

The older man’s mouth opens in shock, and you try and ignore the figure now sitting as still as a stone opposite you both.

“You mean … tried to touch you or summat?” The homeless man asks, seemingly appalled.

“No, no nothing like that.” You pacify. “They were aggressive. Screamed at me, bullied me, hit me … They were abusive basically. I told my father about it, and he didn’t care.” You rub your cold hands together once more, before continuing. “He didn’t even really listen when I told him, just sent me to my room and told me to keep my mouth shut. Then I realised … My father wasn’t quiet or lazy, he was a drugged up layabout. And my brothers … well they were just abusive assholes, who thought that smacking me around was better entertainment than anything else.”

“So you left then?”

You nod, and clear your throat to clear away some of the rasp that had built up in your voice.

“I was thirteen, and got some money from social services, because my mum had left me some for my birthday in her will. I bought a train ticket to London … never looked back.”

“That was brave.” A deep voice says from across the fire, and you send a watery smile to your friend, just as the homeless man nods.

“Aye, it was. To go from that to be homeless …”

“I met a man called Bill, an older gentlemen who yelled at me for sleeping in the wrong spot, and dragged me to the Arches under a railway bridge, where he introduced me to the kindest people I had ever met.” You smile to yourself once again, feeling a slight pang at the mention of your old friend. “I lived with them for seven years, and they became my family.”

“So, why’d leave?” The man continues, obviously mentioning the fact that you were suddenly in Norwood.

“A friend needs my help.” You reply simply, and the man nods once again.

“Huh … Brave, brave girl …”

You smile shyly, before asking the man where he had come from, and what he was doing. He was a fantastic story teller, and you didn’t find it difficult at all to listen to him. He mentions a friend repeatedly though, and after a while, you realise you need to ask.

“This friend of yours …”

“Sailor” The man corrects with a nod, and you smile at the unusual name.

“Sailor, was he actually a sailor.”

“Oh yeah, had a medal and everything. He let me borrow it once …”

“Where is he now?” You ask, wondering if you would get to talk to this so called ‘sailor’

“He went down to the Oldacre workshop. Got a little job there last week helping …”

“Wait, Jonas Oldacre?” You ask suddenly, before a slight unexplainable chill creeps over your body.

“Yeah …” The man says with a frown.

You look over to Sherlock, and without a single word said, you knew he was thinking the same thing. You both shoot up, and beginning running back towards the village.

“Thanks!” You call over your shoulder at the man, and hear a faint laugh as you move away.

 

“Ah Sherlock, forensics just found this …” Sherlock doesn’t let Lestrade finish before he reaches over and grabs the evidence bag.

“An old military badge …” You mutters as you look at the ash covered contents.

In that moment, you realise what had happened, and you feel slightly sick.

“Lestrade, there is a homeless man in the village by the name of …”

“Winston.” You reply quietly, trying not to actively throw up.

“Yes Winston. Find him, and bring him here.”

“What why?”

“Because he can ID the body for you.”

“It wasn’t Jonas.” You explain to a bemused Lestrade

“DNA will prove it in a few days, but for now we need Winston’s statement.” Sherlock continues, moving quickly around the rubble to the front of the huge house.

“Fine.” Lestrade says, signalling over an officer as you move to catch up with the long legged detective.

“So where’s Jonas?”

“Next door.” The detective says simply, and you turn to Lestrade as the man jogs to catch up with you.

 

“Evening Mrs Lexington, do you mind?”

“You need a warrant!” The woman screams, but Sherlock and Lestrade brush past her, and you follow the two men into the house.

Sherlock stands in the empty attic room, before clapping his hands together and turning to you.

“I’m going to need a newspaper and some water …” He asks, and you don’t question it, just move downstairs to bring the detective what he wanted.

Some police give you odd looks as you slightly dampen the newspaper in the sink, just as a sobbing Mrs Lexington sits cuffed at her kitchen table.

“We’re not invisible you know.” You mutter as you stand over the kitchen sink “We have friends and family, just like you do.” The woman sniffles, but you don’t stop “Sailor had a friend who knew he was missing, and so now we know what happened to him. What you and Jonas did to him.”

“M’am …” A officer warns, no doubt worried that you were going to be liable for something if you kept talking.

“He trusted you, and you killed him and used him like a prop in a play. That’s why you wanted the homeless people out, because you knew eventually one of them would figure it out what you did …” You turn off the tap, and clear your throat. “Jonas is alive, and you both killed an innocent man to frame an innocent man. You’re going to hell …”

You send her a deathly glare as you walk past her back upstairs, and silently rejoice as you hear the woman sob even louder.

You hand the newspaper to Sherlock when you reach the attic, and he lights it with a lighter from a police officer. He begins to slowly wave it around, creating a deep black smoke.

He turns to you, and nods once. “Now, on the count of three … One, two, three …”

“FIRE!” You scream with all your might, just as a bang sounds from above your heads.

Sherlock looks up with a triumphant smile on his face, before nodding his head towards the ceiling.

“Well go on then Lestrade, you may want to catch him.”

“Him?” The detective inspector asks, as an officer takes the burning newspaper from Sherlock.

Not a second later, a square piece of the ceiling slides away, and the begrudged and coughing face of a man suddenly appears above you all. You resist the urge to jump at him.

“Jonas Oldacre.” Sherlock says, more as an explanation than a question.

You and Sherlock both look over towards Lestrade with equally matched smug expressions, though all the man can manage in response was … “Jesus Christ”


	7. The Disappearance of Wisteria Lodge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the original story by Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge.

“My God …”

John leans back into the sofa with a deep exhale. He looks genuinely shocked and disgusted, and you can’t blame him.

“I know, it was really awful.” You agree, before taking a quick sip of your tea.

The flat was currently only being warmed by the small fire place in the living room, which made being in the house in general awful unless you were crowding your ice cold hands around a cup of something extremely hot. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind the cold in the slightest, but you assumed John did, as hadn’t even taken off his coat when he had arrived.

“Did you tell his friend then? Was it Winston?” John asks, and you nod with a small smile.

“Yeah we found him. He gave his statement to the police, identified Sailor and then was gone by morning.”

“You didn’t even see him go?”

“Oh of course, he gave me this as a thank you …”

You reach into your jean pocket, and carefully pull out the large round coin that you had been gifted by the homeless man.

“What it is?” John asks, spinning the object in his hands, before he holds it underneath a lamp at the end of the sofa, no doubt attempting to see it better in the dull light.  

“An old coin. He’s carved on it, that’s why you can barely see the date or …”

“An American dollar coin, circa 1921.” A monotone voice interrupts from the hallway, and John nods, seemingly impressed.

“Where do you think he got that?” The Doctor asks, handing it back over to you.

“Dunno, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he had been to America at some point.”

“Do you really think he was 93 years old?” Sherlock asks, before yawning, and walking into the kitchen

Strangely, the Detective had been in bed for longer than usual. After your escapades in Norwood, you had both been exhausted, and come straight back to London in the early hours rather than find a hotel room. You hadn’t slept, but Sherlock had gone straight to bed and only just emerged from his dark room.

“He didn’t have any teeth …” You suggest with a shrug, but you know it was a weak argument.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, before he huffs and pulling his sheet closer around himself, moves over to the much used coffee machine. Well, it was used often by you, ergo; Sherlock usually knew that you would keep in stocked for when he suddenly had an urge for caffeine.

You noticed with some relief that Sherlock was actually wearing some pyjama trousers underneath the sheet, and turned to see John also look comically relieved when he also notices this. You both laugh at your expressions, before you take another sip of your still warm and sweet tea.

“So, how is Mary?” You ask after a moment, and John smiles and nods.

“Yeah she’s good. Not long now …”

“Nervous?” You ask.

You didn’t really know anything about children, babies or pregnancy, but knew enough about John to see that the man appeared a little bit, well scared.

“Terrified.” He admits, and your expression softens at your friends genuine worry.

“Well that’s understandable. This is kinda huge.”

“Any advice?”

You freeze for a moment, wondering if the Doctor was suddenly addressing Sherlock instead of you. His kind gaze does not leave your face however, so you smile, incredulous.

“About having a kid?”

“About having a daughter …”

“Oh, erm …” You frown for a moment, but it only takes a few seconds for you to think of something to say. “Don’t force pink on her all the time, let her play with whatever toys she wants, keep her away from sugar as long as possible and … get her a pet.”

You say all of this without barely a breath in between and John looks impressed, whereas Sherlock who had just walked into the living room, looks curious.

“A pet?” John asks, and you note he sounds to be not very keen on the idea.

“Yeah, apparently having a pet is good for kids. Teach them how to be gentle, gives them companionship …” You shrug. “It doesn’t have to be a dog or anything, maybe a fish?”

“It’ll die within two days in our house.” John replies seriously, and you chuckle,

“Well that’s the other thing,” You continue with a sigh “In a kinda morbid way it teaches them about death early on.”

“My God, you really have been spending too much time with Sherlock.”

You laugh loudly then, but John just looks between you and Sherlock with a comical expression that says ‘what have I done’.

“She’s right you know. The PHC did an intensive study …”

“Yeah ok got it.” John dismisses Sherlock, no doubt worrying that he was going to get a word by word description of this ‘intensive study’ “Pet, not too much pink and ease off the sugar.”

You nod, seemingly satisfied before getting up to put away your now empty cup.

“How many days now?” You ask over your shoulder on the way to the now slightly cleaner kitchen. Mrs Hudson had been busy whilst you and Sherlock had been away.

“Anytime now really.”

“Three.”

You frown over at Sherlock, who appeared still to be only just waking up “Three?” You ask, and the detective nods. “Is that your guess Sherlock?”

“I never guess.” The man replies, and he sounds so childishly stubborn that you have to bite your lip to hold back your laughter.

“You just did …” You muse, and your friend turns to glare at you.

“Three days.” Sherlock says once again, and you sigh with resignation.

“Ok fine,” You pause for a moment, watching the detective closely just to try and see if he knew something you didn’t. “Two days.”

“What are you both on about?” John asks, watching your interaction closely from his spot at the living room table.

Sherlock squints at you, and you squint back, trying to keep your face impassive.

“Deal.” Sherlock replies suddenly, and you smile, both having ignored John’s questioning.

“What about you John?” You ask, turning to make yourself another cup of tea.

“I’m hoping Sherlock’s right.”

“What, why?!” You exclaim, whilst Sherlock just looks smug to have the Doctor on his side.

“Because that gives me another day to try and avoid freaking out about the whole thing.”

“You’ll  be great John.” You reply earnestly, and even Sherlock’s gaze soften as he nods at his friend, agreeing with you.

“Statistically …”

“Hush.” You admonish your friend before he can say something that gives John the excuse to give him a black eye. You hand Sherlock a pack of biscuits, before moving to sit back at the table.

“Ah Mrs Hudson, we were just all taking turns to guess when Mary will go into labour.”

“Wait!” You interrupt as Mrs Hudson enters the room “Go into labour, or have the baby? That could be two different days.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, before turning back to his land lady.

“Six days.” The woman says without missing a beat, and Sherlock turns to look at you with a perplexed expression.

“That was quick Mrs Hudson.” You reply with a chuckle, and even John looks confused.

“Well my friend Bethany, oh and this was years ago now …”

Suddenly, the newly installed doorbell begins to ring mercifully, and you all let out a sigh of relief. Sherlock jumps up, you assume to get dressed, as Mrs Hudson moves to answer the door.

“Saved by the bell …” Sherlock mumbles as he walks away, and you laugh quietly, only to stop, and wonder where that sudden sense of humour had some from.

“Client?” John asks, pulling your attention back into the living room.

“Probably. We’ve been pretty quiet over Christmas but Sherlock said it would pick up soon.” You reply with a shrug.

“Well I think I’m going to stay for this one. At least to hear the first bit,” John adds, obviously referring to the clients reasons for coming.

“Fair enough” You agree with a smile, just as a fully dressed Sherlock renters the room.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you interrupt him quickly, holding up a hand to halt his words.

“If you say ‘The game is on!’ one more time I swear to God I’m going to break the coffee machine.”

Sherlock just opens and closes his mouth, obviously unsure of what to say in response to your little outburst. Suddenly, John breaks out into a full belly laugh, and you can only hold your amusement in for another few seconds before you join him.

“I wasn’t …” Sherlock pouts once again, only causing you and John to laugh even more.

The Detective rolls his eyes at you both, before moving to the window; no doubt to try and see who if anyone was downstairs. Mrs Hudson comes up the stair case wearing a radiant smile, and you know then that this defiantly wasn’t a client.

“Hello Molly!” John greets, genuinely surprised and pleased to see the young pathologist.

“Hello” Molly greets with a shy smile.

Sherlock turns to smile at her quickly, before resuming his stoic glaring out of the window onto the street. You and John look over to him, and have to stifle your laughter once again.

“Did I miss something?” Molly asks, smiling herself.

You open your mouth to respond, but Sherlock cuts you off before you can answer your friend.

“No.”

 “Fair enough” Molly says lightly, appearing unperturbed by the childish actions at Baker Street, “I was actually looking for …”

On hearing your name, you head shoots up, and you frown.

“Me?”

“We’ve had another incident at the lab, I’ve just got a message about it this morning.” Molly sighs, before looking over at you with an expression of worry “You wouldn’t be able to come and help with the clear up would you?”

“Of course, that is …” You look over to Sherlock, who just nods.

“Of course.” The Detective agrees, before nodding over towards his friend sat next to you at the table. “John can assist me.”

“Can he?” The man asks sarcastically as you stand to get your coat.

“I’ll be back soon Sherlock.”

You wait for the inevitable comments along the lines of ‘you can’t know that’ or ‘that’s dependant on …’ but it doesn’t come. Sherlock just nods once again, before moving over towards the fire place.

You shrug at Molly, who hides her smile in her huge knitted scarf.

“See you ladies tonight?” John says, and it’s more a question than a statement.

“Sure.”

“Bye John”

You and Molly silently walk down onto Baker Street, and stand for a moment outside waiting for a taxi to come by. You could walk, but it was absolutely freezing in London, and you both silently agreed that was probably a stupid idea.

“New coat?” Molly asks casually, eyeing the new garment with interest. Clearly she loved it as much as you did.

“Yeah, it was a Christmas present apparently.”

“Apparently? You sound like you’re not sure about that.” Molly replies with a smile.

“Well, I got it, then was told it was a gift and I didn’t need to return it, and then Mycroft said ‘considering it a Yuletide gift’” You laugh and shake your head, half amused by your own Mycroft impression and partly amused that the man had even said ‘Yuletide’.

“Wait Mycroft?” Molly asks, just as you flag down a taxi. “As in, Mycroft Holmes? Sherlock’s big brother?”

You nod as you climb into the taxi, and tell the man where you wanted to go. As he drives off, you notice Molly was still looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe.

“What?” You ask simply, feeling quite awkward under your friends stare.

“Mycroft Holmes,  _the_ Mycroft Holmes bought you that coat?” You nod, and Molly scoffs, before suddenly her eyes widen “It must have cost a fortune …”

“Nope, don’t do that.” You plead, interrupting the woman “I don’t want to think about how much it’s worth, or I’ll freak out.”

Molly laughs, before looking at the striped red and orange jumper you were wearing under your huge grey coat. “Nice jumper.” The woman says with a knowing smile.

“Thanks, a friend gave it to me” You reply, playing along “She said she’d never worn it …”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Molly agrees, trying not to laugh “It’s …”

Suddenly the woman giggles, and her laughter sparks your own. You shake your head as the taxi pulls up alongside St Barts, and you climb out, still laughing.

“Seriously though, thank you for those clothes.” You say earnestly as you walk into the building. “It was very kind of you, and I really do like them.”

“It’s no problem.” Molly replies quietly, “I wasn’t wearing them.”

“No, seriously Molly,” You stop the woman just outside her lab and office “I mean it. I really needed them, and you didn’t have to. So, thanks.”

Molly blushes, before swinging open the door. “Brace yourself, they told me it was an absolute mess.”

The lab itself looks relatively untouched, but you, thanks to working with Sherlock for so long, can tell that someone had been in here.

“There …” You point over to a chair on its side “That’s been knocked over.”

“Could’ve been cleaning staff?” Molly suggest, walking deeper into the room with a frown, obviously worried about what else she’d fine.

You shake your head “It’s not the chair, it’s what it’s next to it …” You walk over, and slowly move the chair upright and push it under the desk. “Someone tried to open this drawer,” You point to the long drawer next to the chair “They knocked over the chair as they pulled back, and then left it, worried probably that someone heard them.”

“Okay …” Molly says slowly, and you internally rejoice that she was talking your deductions seriously.

“Cleaning staff wouldn’t bother trying to get in this drawer anyway; it’s only the smaller autopsy instruments.”

“But the bigger ones aren’t locked away.” Molly adds, beginning to sound confused.

“Why not?” You ask, and the woman shrugs.

“No point. They are too big or bulky to sneak out, plus they all have some sort of computer chip in them so we can trace them.”

“Like pets?” You ask, and Molly nods with a smile. “They weren’t looking for weapons or anything like that Molly; they were looking for something to help open that door …”

Molly follows your pointed finger over to the record room. The door was open just slightly, and your friend sighs.

“The maintenance staff must have come in, saw that, and called it in. No one’s allowed in there except me and my boss, and we have the only keys.”

“Well, that would explain why …” You trail off from your investigation of the broken lock, and look at the woman with an amused expression. “I’ve been in here before. When I was first working with Sherlock, I helped you clean everything up …”

Molly actually looks embarrassed for a moment “Yeah, well that’s different.”

“How?”

“I trust you.”

You smile before you can stop yourself, and then watch as Molly moves to slowly push open the door and expose the mess within.  

“Holy …”

The rest of your sentence trails off as you survey the absolute chaos. It was the room in which the records were kept from the autopsies, as well as personal information about doctors, lab workers, guests and other things. It was full of important documents. Well, you correct internally, was full of important documents. Now it was full of …

“Shit.” Molly sighs, and you pull a face. You had never even heard your friend swear before. “This is worse than I’d thought it would be.”

Suddenly, Molly’s office phone starts ringing in the background, and she looks torn for a moment.

“Go on,” You reply, shooing the woman away “I’ve got this.”

“Thank you!” The woman calls, as she runs to answer the phone.

“No problem.” You reply, walking deeper into the room and trying desperately to avoid standing on anything.

 

Molly comes back into the room to help you half an hour later, claiming that she had an autopsy at 3pm, and you would have to be long gone by then.

“Okay.” You agree, standing to put away some files you had sorted. “Why didn’t your boss call the police about this?”

“Didn’t last time.” Molly replies, walking over to a shelf to place down some files “Nothing was stolen, and only the lock was damaged. He claims that the police have more important things to worry about than just some random prank.”

“You think this was a prank?” You ask with a raised eyebrow, and Molly shakes her head.

“Of course it wasn’t, but he’s an idiot …” You laugh, and Molly looks over to you “What?”

“I’ve never really heard you talk like this before, it’s awesome.” You smile at your friend “You should swear and call people idiots more often.”

“Bring Sherlock next time, and I just well might.”

You both laugh then, before you are suddenly distracted by something sitting on the floor in front of you, buried slightly under a mess of papers. You slowly and with shaking hands, move to hide it in your pocket, but Molly notices.

“What was that?” She asks, looking over towards you from where she was stood next to a shelf.

“What?” You ask, feigning ignorance “Nothing.”

Molly nods, apparently pleased with that comment, but your heart begins racing.

That plectrum had belonged to Bill, you would recognise it anywhere. The question was, what the hell was it doing here?

 

 “I think this is going to take forever …” Molly muses, throwing yet another pile of paper onto a shelf in the overflowing room.

“Hmm?”

You don’t look up from your task, but can suddenly sense your friend looking at you closely.

“Are you all right?” The woman asks “You seem distracted.”

Your head snaps up then, and you try to plant a realistic looking smile on your face.

“Sorry, just tired I guess.” You murmur, before moving onto another file. Nothing was missing so far, but you thought you had better keep on searching, just in case.  

“Oh god I’m sorry. I forgot you and Sherlock had been working yesterday. You must be exhausted.” Molly replies kindly, moving towards you where you were sat on the floor.

As if to prove her point you yawn, but manage to shake your head as you do, trying to disagree with her concern. “I didn’t get much sleep, but I’ll manage.”

“No it’s okay. You head home; we can finish everything in the morning. That is …”

“Of course I’ll help tomorrow.” You interrupt with a smile, before moving to stand up and stretch your aching and stiff limbs.

“Thank you.”

Molly sighs, before looking around the room once more. It was cleaner, but barely. Whoever had broken in had literally taken every single piece of paper and moved it, thrown it or in some cases, even ripped it slightly. Both of you were bemused as to why. “I think I owe you a drink.”

You smile, pulling on your coat. “Just doing my job Molly. I’ll see you later …”

“Wait …”

You turn to gaze at the woman, one eyebrow rising at her flushed and worried expression.

“What?”

“I meant to ask, how are things? With you and Sherlock?”

You frown then, trying to resist the urge to fold your arms. That was a defensive position, and despite Molly not really being a detective, even she would be able to see that.

“What do you mean?” You ask, and Molly looks even more flustered for a second.

“Well, he’s not exactly the easiest person to get along with, and you live with him.”

“Everything’s fine Molly,” You reply easily, before smiling at your friend. “I’ll see you later.”

“Ok.”

* * *

“Wiggins?”

You hadn’t been under The Arches for nearly a month. Anytime you had needed the assistance of someone in The Network you had just sent a quick text, and then it was problem solved. For some reason however, you thought that this required a little bit of a personal touch.

“Well well, if it isn’t little miss Baker Street.”

Rolling your eyes, you walk up to your companion who was leaning against a concrete pillar, trying and failing to look discrete. “Please tell me that’s not my new nickname.”

“I could, but then I’d be lying.”

“Did you get that photograph?” You ask, and Wiggins begins rummaging in his pockets. You remind yourself  not to tell Sherlock how his evidence had been manhandled.

“Yep, here it is.” Wiggins hands you the small polaroid, and you quickly and carefully, stash it in your bag. “Matthew and Spike had to literally climb mountains to get that  …”

“Literally …” You scoff, but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes, and amazingly, Wiggins seems to notice.

“You alright?”

“Yes.” You reply quickly, and rather harshly. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?!”

“Sorry.”

“No, sorry Wiggins.” You sigh once again, rubbing your eyes. Clearly you were more tired than you thought you were.

“Stressed? You know if leading The Network is too much work …”

“Shut it.” You laugh really then, and Wiggins tries to stifle his own amusement. Suddenly, your hand comes to rest on the plectrum in your pocket, and you decide that enough was enough. You were going to find out what was going on.

“Wiggins, what happened to all of Bill’s things?”

“What things?”

“After he … died, what happened to all his stuff?”

“Erm …” The man frowns into the distance then, and you’re glad that he didn’t pause to comment on your reluctance to say the word ‘died’ “Well Mrs T and most of your lot got given a box of stuff by the police, but it was mostly photos and money and things.”

“What?”

Wiggins just continues speaking, obviously not having heard your comment. “The rest, like his sleeping bag and stuff got handed over to the cops and then I recon they got burned or given away or something.”

“Wait, he had money on him?”

“Oh yeah, coppers handed your group a couple of hundred quid. Said it was on him when he died.”

“No, no that can’t be right.” Your heart begins pounding, and you shake your head. Wiggins looks genuinely concerned, and moves forward as if to support you.

“What?”

“I’ll see you later Wiggins.” Is all you manage to say in response before you turn, and race back to Baker Street, ignoring the concerned calls of your friend in the distance.

If Bill hadn’t been killed for that money, you think as you run across a busy London road, then why was he attacked? And more to the point, how was his plectrum at Barts? You had a million questions racing in your head, but for some reason, you didn’t want to talk to Sherlock about it. Something was going on in The Network, and you were determined to find out the truth.

* * *

“Problem?”

“Jesus Christ …” You clutch your hand over your chest, turning for a moment from you exploration of your room. It was a complete mess, but you still couldn’t find what you were looking for. “Don’t do that.”

“We have a client.” Sherlock replies in his deep monotone, and you notice that the detective was trying desperately not to make a comment on the mess before him.

“We? I thought John was helping you.”

“He was, now you are.”

“Fine.” You sigh, and walk towards Sherlock who was stood resting on your doorway.

You close the door and begin to walk down the stairs to the living room, noticing all the while that Sherlock was frowning at you.

“Sherlock, do you know what happened to that report? The one about my friend Bill?”

“Lestrade picked it up last time he was here.” The detective says simply as he moves to sit at the table.

There was no client present, so that must mean Skype, and you were definitely not in the mood.

“Great.”

Sherlock pauses as he moves to pull his computer towards himself, appearing slightly confused as to your sudden and very out of character change in mood. “If there’s a problem …”

“No, no problem.” You interrupt with a wave of the hand, and sit down next to the detective. “So, who’s the client?”

Sherlock frowns, but still clicks a button on his laptop, obviously either answering or calling his new client.

"A professor from Edinburgh."

You wait a few moments for Sherlock to continue, but when he remains silent, you scoff.

"That can't be it. You probably know his shoe size, what his favourite food is ..."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but before he can speak, a flustered and plump face appears on screen. You quickly access that the man was on a train, and wonder if the reason for the impromptu call was because he was currently travelling to London. Apparently, there had been a problem with some travel services, such as the trains, recently. You had read that aloud to Sherlock as you browsed the paper, but he had simply said 'boring' and carried on eating his toast. 

"Professor Eccles I assume ..." Sherlock greets in his deep monotone, and the man on the laptop screen nods his head comically, sending his long grey hair falling into his face, and he pushes it away quickly.

"Indeed Mr Holmes. I apologise that I could not be there to meet you in person. These confounded trains ..."

You stifle a laugh at the man's ridiculous accent, which was an exaggerated British one, rather than the broad Scottish you had been expecting, considering the man was from Edinburgh. 

"I believe you are in need of my assistance Professor." Sherlock replies, and you could tell from his expression that the detective was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Obviously, this professor was not what he had been expecting either. 

"That I am Mr Holmes, you see ..." The man stops then, and turns to look over his shoulder, seemingly at some of the other passengers that were out of view of the camera. The train looked relatively empty, so it surprised you that the Professor was so nervous about speaking to you both. 

“Should I be taking notes …” You whisper to Sherlock, trying not to be overheard by your new bumbling client. Your companion shakes his head quickly. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting anything exciting.

“Mr Holmes, last night I visited an aspiring student …” Mr Eccles begins quietly, still trying not to be overheard by any of the trains passengers. “It’s a relatively normal occurance. People contact me from all over the country, wanting to meet and discuss academic matters. Anyway, this particular encounter was …” The man pauses then, before looking off past the camera with a far off expression. “Very strange.”

Sherlock frowns, and you can tell that this has grasped his interest. “Details.” Is all the man says in return, silently begging for his new client to continue.

Sensing that this was going to be interesting, you quickly reach over and gather your notebook from the table, and make a few quick introductory notes. You client clears his throat, before beginning again.

“This fellow, a Mr Garcia, emailed me a week ago, offering me accommodation at his countryside Bed and Breakfast. He said I could stay for the weekend, for free, as long as I brought along some of my academic papers so we could have a discussion. Apparently, he was a fan of mine …”

“You just went to meet him, just like that?” You question incredulously, not managing to hide your negative opinion on the matter.

Sherlock remains silent at your outburst, but the Professor shifts in his seat, almost appearing to ‘puff up’ in a defensive gesture.

“Young lady, I have been a travelling researcher, Professor, scholar and historian for many years, and I can assure you …”

“What exactly is your field professor?” Sherlock interrupts, just as the man was beginning to glow a deep shade of crimson.

“I am an archaeologist of post WW11 England, Mr Holmes. I am also a keen cartographer. I study maps …” The professor adds, aiming a smug look in your direction as he does so, clearly believing that you wouldn’t know what that was. You manage not to make a sarcastic retort, even though he was right on that front.

“And this Mr Garcia wanted you to discuss what exactly?”

“His home and business Mr Holmes. His house was very old, and he wanted to discuss it with me. I believe he had hoped to make some changes to the interior, but was denied due to it being a listed building. He asked that I tell him about the site, and help him understand more about it.”

Professor Eccles stops then, and you and Sherlock quickly exchange a look, wondering what on earth had captured the man’s attention so quickly. A young train conductor comes into view then, asking for the Professors ticket. He hands it over, mouthing a quick apology to Sherlock as he does so. When the train conductor moves on, your new client begins once again.

“Anyway, I arrived at the house yesterday morning, and my guest was … odd. He was nervous, and barely really spoke a word to me. He had a thick Spanish accent, that I recognised, and so did the other man at the house.”

“Who was this man?” Sherlock question, as you were quickly scribbling down notes.

“The butler I believe Mr Holmes. And that was another thing that was strange. Despite Mr Garcia claiming that he ran a successful B&B, the house was completely empty. There were no staff, and this ‘butler’ did everything. The cooking, cleaning, organising …”

“Fake business?” You whisper to Sherlock, but he doesn’t have time to form any sort of response before Mr Eccles speaks once again.

“The food was inedible, the house was freezing … and filthy Mr Holmes! Honestly, it was a wreck …”

“Address?” Sherlock asks simply, and the Professor quickly rattles it off. You note it down, but assume that Sherlock has safely stored it away in his mind palace.

“I was woken around 1am when Mr Garcia came in my room to ask if I had called for him. I thought it was odd, said I didn’t, and he left. Well when I woke up this morning it was almost 10am. That was strange, as I specifically asked to be woken at least by 8:30am, as I had an early train. I went downstairs and …” The Professor raises his hands, only to quickly bring them down in a semblance of a shrug.

“Was anything missing?” You ask, and Sherlock caves his hands under his face, and leans back into his chair. You recognised his famous stance well enough, and new he was deep in thought about this new mystery. 

“No. Even the food we had from the night before was still on the table. It hadn’t been tidied away. The car was still in the driveway …”

“I’d like to take a look at this.” Sherlock says suddenly, shooting up from the table and darting around the room. 

“You’re, coming to Wisteria Lodge?” The Professor asks, trying desperately to follow Sherlock in the small radius his screen would allow. 

“I suggest you get off at the next stop Professor." Sherlock says, coming to a stop in front of the computer and handing you your coat "Me and my colleague will meet you in a few hours.”

“Very well Mr Holmes.” Mr Eccles replies with a smile, before the screen clicks off, and the man disappears from view. 

* * *

Within half an hour, Sherlock had bundled you both into a taxi, and you were headed off to Wisteria Lodge. It wasn’t far outside London, but with the trains and public transport being the way it was, the detective had insisted you take a taxi. You didn’t even want to think about how much this would cost. You spend the journey distracted by your thoughts of Bill, and the break in at the morgue. Sherlock hadn’t asked about it, and you couldn’t’ help but wonder how much he knew about it. He seemed to know everything after all …

By the time you arrive at the small village next to Wisteria Lodge, it is almost 4:00pm, and you wonder internally if you were going to be able to get any sleep tonight. Sherlock had grabbed his coat and phone, and you had your coat and notebook, but that was it. You were sure John would have insisted on packing something a bit more substantial, or at least useful. But here you both were, an hour away from home, no one knowing you had left, without any luggage.

“This was probably a bad idea …” You muse quietly, as you watch Sherlock pay the driver.

Sherlock smiles slightly as the car pulls away, leaving you both to walk up the long driveway to the abandoned Lodge.

“Problem?” He asks, and you note he sounds amused.

“Do you usually just, run off like that? Without any planning or anything?”

“Yep.” The detective places his hands in his trusted coat, and you shake your head, amused but still questioning.

“Why?”

“Why not?” The man replies simply, and you don’t have a smart response for that.

“You know, if we get in trouble, John is going to kill us.” You continue, pulling your own coat tighter around yourself. It was still Winter, and freezing cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous” Sherlock replies, as you round the corner and spot Wisteria Lodge “John will kill me.”

A small plump figure was stood just outside the building, and you falter a moment, before recognising the man. Professor Eccles had somehow managed to arrive before you, and looked positively giddy and seeing Sherlock.

“Ah Mr Holmes, you’re here!” The man cries, quickly jogging over to you both.

“Professor Eccles I assume” Sherlock says once again, nodding slightly in greeting and ignoring the man’s outstretched hand.

“Indeed I am Mr Holmes. Thank you for coming on such short notice …” The Professor gushes, but Sherlock was already scanning his eyes around the building, no doubt you think, looking for clues.

“Check the outside.” Sherlock says quickly, turning to you and nodding over to the small archway that indicated a garden was at the back of the house “Professor, if you wouldn’t mind showing me inside”

“Of course.” Mr Eccles says with a smile, and you watch as the detective and the man stroll through the main entrance which toy your surprise, was unlocked.

You slowly work your way around the outside of the building, taking the time to look for any footprints, or dropped items that could be of interest. The plants and grass were overgrown, making your usually simple task all the more difficult. Every now and then as you approached a window, you could hear Sherlock and Eccles talk inside, but you remained focused on your task. After going all the way around the house, you make your way back to the front door.

“Good day young lady …” A polite voice says, as you reach the front of the house.

A well suited man, as well as two police officers were stood at the front of Wisteria Lodge. The officers were sending you looks akin to suspicion, whereas the man who had addressed you sends you a genuine smile.

“Hi.” You reply awkwardly, trying to fight the urge to bolt off into the house.

“I’m wondering if you could help point us to the direction of one Professor John Eccles?” The man asks you politely.

“Eccles?” You question, “He’s inside …”

Before you could finish your sentence, the two officers sweep into the Lodge, leaving you to stand perplexed and the older man appearing amused.

“Thank you.” He says simply, before following the two men into the house.

You stand frozen for a few seconds, bemused by the exchange, before you suddenly regain your senses, and dart inside the building.

Wisteria Lodge did indeed appear to be a huge, grand old house. But it was also dirty, freezing cold, and apparently, abandoned.

You look towards the staircase, on which Sherlock was descending with a very nervous looking client. 

“It’s an honour to meet you Mr Holmes,” The older man says joyfully as Sherlock moves to stand in front of the gentleman and his two police officers. “I truly admire your work.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock replies, surprising you.

It was a rare occurrence when you and Sherlock actually met someone who was a sincere fan of the detective. Your friend had a habit of not caring either way, but he seemed to be genuinely thankful for the man’s compliment. Well that, or he could simply be trying to keep on the man’s good side, you argue. Especially considering he was flanked with police.

“I am Detective Baynes Mr Holmes, and I take it that this is Mr Eccles.” The Detective continues, looking over at the cowering figure.

“I am …” The man murmurs, moving to stand alongside Holmes, instead of behind him.

“We require a statement Mr Eccles, pertaining to the murder of one Mr Garcia of Wisteria Lodge.”

At that your eyes quickly dart to Sherlock, and he meets your gaze quickly. The Detective carries on speaking, moving slowly towards your client whilst you and Sherlock silently communicate across the room.

“M – murdered?” The Professor mumbles, visibly shaken.

“Oh yes, he is dead.” Detective Baynes replies simply, although not coldly. “As you were the last person to see Mr Garcia alive …”

The Detective cannot complete his sentence before Professor Eccles stumbles, and lands in a heap on the bottom of the staircase. If it wasn’t for Sherlock’s quick reaction in helping the man to the floor, you’re sure the man could have been seriously injured. The two police move forward and Sherlock moves backwards, allowing them to check the man. Your friend nods his head, and you follow him and Detective Baynes into the next room, away from the pale Professor and the two officers attending to him.

“How did you know where to find him?” Sherlock was asking the Detective as you reach the men, who are communicating quietly.

“The train station CCTV matched with a witness statement that the Professor came to Wisteria Lodge yesterday evening, and then left this morning, only to return with you Mr Holmes. An examination on the body of Mr Garcia showed that the man was murdered around midnight last night, meaning Professor Eccles …”

“Is a suspect?” You question, interrupting the conversation.

Detective Baynes looks over to you once again, but this time the man wears a quizzical expression.

“This is my colleague and assistant Detective.” Sherlock easily states, nodding over towards you “I’m sure you are aware I used to work with john Watson.”

“Oh yes, I’m very aware of that Mr Holmes.” Baynes responds with a wide grin “I was a tremendous fan of his blog. Still am in fact.”

“Clearly” Sherlock mumbles, and you smile.

“But may I ask why …”

“She has assisted me on many cases this past few months Detective. Her input is always graciously appreciated.”

You turn to gawk at Sherlock. That was the closest you had ever gotten to Sherlock giving you an outright compliment. He had almost said that he enjoys your company. Or did he? You shake your head slightly, managing to close your mouth and trying to get back into a somewhat professional state of mind. A man had just been murdered, this wasn’t the time for you to be thinking about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Relationship?

“This was found in the man’s pocket,” Detective Baynes’ voice pulls you out of your thoughts before you could become distracted once again. The man clears his throat, and begins to read loudly.

_“Our own colours, green and white._

_Green open, white shut._

_Main stair, first corridor, seventh right, green baize._

_Godspeed._

_D.”_

“D?” You question quietly to Sherlock, put the man wasn’t paying attention.

“And it was addressed to Mr Garcia, Wisteria Lodge.” The Detective continues, holding up the note and showing the front to Sherlock “No stamp or postcode.”

“So it was hand delivered.” You summarise, and Sherlock sends you a quick smile, telling you that you were correct.

“Indeed young lady.” Detective Baynes replies with a gleaming smile “Very well spotted …”

“In a woman’s hand I presume.” Sherlock interrupts, and the detective nods.

“Yes Mr Holmes. From first glace it would appear that it was written by a woman.”

“Someone tried to warn him?” You say to Sherlock, but Detective Baynes doesn’t seem to realise your comment was a question.

“That… would make sense.” The man muses, folding the note and placing it back into his pocket.

“I trust you will have people examine the note.” Sherlock replies easily, and the Detective nods emphatically.

“Of course Mr Holmes, that is the way of these things.” Baynes smiles brightly, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a paper bag. Picking out a sweet, he quickly pops it into his mouth, and then holds the bag out towards you and Sherlock.

“Then we shall be leaving.” Sherlock responds after a small measure of silence, just as you were nodding a ‘no thank you’ to the Detective offering you a sweet.

“What?” You question quietly to your friend, not understanding why he had suddenly decided no to stay and explore Wisteria Lodge further.

“Good day Detective.” Sherlock continues, shaking the mans hand once again, before sweeping from the room.

You quickly follow, but not before sending a quick smile to Detective Baynes, who was still offering you a sweet. This time you take one, and hear the cheery man chuckling as you leave the building to find Sherlock.

You pop the sweet in your mouth, and quickly suck the sticky residue off your fingers before you reach Sherlock.

“Where are we going? Are we just going to leave Professor Eccles with …”

“Detective Baynes will be taking him to the local police station. He will want a statement.” Sherlock explains, and you nod, mostly to yourself.

“Oh.”

You walk with Sherlock for a few minutes, heading back down the long driveway towards the man road. No doubt you were aiming to get to the local village, and look around there. It was times like this that you were immensely grateful for the coat that Mycroft had gifted to you. It was warm and comfortable, and you appreciated it keeping you safe and toasty warm in the freezing winter air.

You listen to Sherlock as you walk, hearing the man mumble under his breath. He often did this on cases, especially when he had just received a large amount of information. On hearing one particular phrase though, you can’t help but comment.

“The Spanish Embassy?” You question, and Sherlock looks startled for a moment at hearing your voice. You wondered if the man had forgotten you were there.

“Emailed in the taxi on the way here.” Sherlock mutters, pulling his coat firmly around himself as he spoke.

“You emailed the Spanish Embassy?”

“No one there had ever heard of Garica, or any one moving to the area.” Sherlock continues, ignoring your question.

Suddenly, you realise what Sherlock was getting at, and sigh “So, he was an illegal immigrant then?”

“Yes.”

“An illegal immigrant who wound up dead …”

“Baynes is looking for the murderer, but we need to do something else.”

You finally reach the man road, and follow Sherlock’s gaze down to the small group of buildings that were no doubt the local village. He nods his head in their direction, and you follow him quickly as he walks away once again.

“We need to do what?” You question as you almost skip to keep up with the long legged detective.

“Find out who Garcia was.”

* * *

“Garcia? Aye, knew of him. Never met him though. Now I mention it, I don’t know anyone who had met him. He moved into the Lodge three months ago, and never once came down to the village.”

“Not once?” You begin to scribble in your notebook, listening all the while to the owner of the local pub.

“Nope. Him and that man who worked for him never seemed to leave the place.”

“So, no one you know of spoke to him?” The man shakes his head “Saw him outside the Lodge?”

“Nope. Like I said, the man pretty much kept to himself.”

“Oh. Ok, thank you for your help.”

You climb dejectedly down from the bar stool, picking up your small glass of coke as you do. Looking around, you spot Sherlock sat in a quiet corner of the pub. The man was looking out the window and appearing even more exhausted than you felt.

“No luck.” You quietly say as you sit down opposite the detective. “He moved here three months ago, just him and his friend. Or butler …” You add, placing your notebook down on the table.

Sherlock quickly picks it up, and immediately turns to your latest entries.  

“No one has seen him outside the Lodge,” You continue as Sherlock reads “No one has spoken to him. They just thought he was one of those people who kept to himself …”

“Had.” Sherlock says quickly and quietly.

“Pardon?”

“It’s past tense. Garcia’s dead.”

You frown into your glass, before taking a large drink. Sherlock seemed out of sorts. Well, more so than usual.

“So, what …”

“Wait.” Sherlock interrupts, and you notice that he was gazing out of the window behind you.

“What is it?” You ask immediately, turning to follow the Detectives distracted gaze.

You notice some police cars on the road outside the pub, and far more officers than you thought would be necessary for two cars. Suddenly, a huge man is pulled from one of the cars, and no less than six officers rush forward to detain him.

“Mr Garcia’s butler …” Sherlock answers your unspoken question, watching the scuffle with as much interest as you.

Before you can reply, Sherlock shoots up from his seat. He rushes over to the door, and you take one final drink before following. After all, you had no idea how long it would be before you stopped for a break again.

Outside, you spot a very smug looking Detective Baynes, and Sherlock was listening to the smiling man.

“… detained in the back garden of one of the neighbouring cottages Mr Holmes. It would appear that the man had been attempting to avoid the authorities as he was making his way to the Railway station a few hours North.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, merely nods his head. Surely he didn’t believe that the Butler was the murderer. That just didn’t make sense.

“Should you wish to question him …”

“Actually” Sherlock interrupts, “I would. Now if possible before your Constables get a hand on him.”

“Well certainly Mr Holmes.” Baynes says with a beaming smile, obviously thrilled to be working with the Detective. “This way …”

Baynes turns, and follows the Officers and the Butler to a small brick building was assume was the local Police station. Sherlock pulls out his phone, checks it quickly, before pocketing it.

“Stay here.” Sherlock says simply, before turning to follow Baynes.

“What? What do you mean stay here?”

Sherlock sighs, exasperated, but does at least stop his maddening walking pace. “The Butler is innocent, which means that the killer is still nearby.”

“You don’t think he would have got to the Railway?”

“No. If this man didn’t then he certainly didn’t.”

You frown, as Sherlock turns and begins to walk away. “How do you know that?” You call.

“Because innocent men can disappear easier than guilty ones.” Sherlock calls back, before disappearing into the station.

You turn, annoyed, and head back to the Pub.

Sherlock was right. The Police had found the Butler, who was innocent, but obviously had something to hide. Your guess was that he was also an illegal immigrant like his employer Garcia. If he couldn’t even make it to the Station, you doubted that a panicked man who had killed someone wouldn’t. Unless …

You stop just as you reach the pub, and turn to look over to the station. A trained killer? Someone who had been hired? They would have no problem blending into the local community. Well, that was great, you think, watching some dishevelled looking officers walk out of the station. The killer could be anyone.

You think where to start. The butler had been found in a local garden, which meant maybe the killer had the same idea. Hide locally.

The only places you could think of that a killer would be able to hide out, were Wisteria Lodge, and you knew that was impossible, or …

The huge manor house. The one next door to the Lodge.

Well, Sherlock had said stay put, but you were sure that you would be back in the Pub before he was finished interviewing the butler. You check your own phone, and seeing that it had plenty of battery, headed off to the huge house. Hopefully, you wouldn’t need to call back up.

* * *

The house truly was huge. It could easily hide someone who didn’t want to be found, and no one in the village could tell you anything about who lived here. Or more likely, from the gulping and pale expressions from the people you had spoken to, they knew _exactly_ who lived here, and did not want to say anything.

You looked around the small garden at the back of the house, hearing some laughter. Suddenly, two little girls come running from an open door at the back of the huge house, and laugh and scream as they chase each other. You watch for a few seconds, confused.

Was that what everyone was so scared of about this house? Children?

You move, trying to silently make your way further around the house, hugging the tree line. You keep your eyes on the children, making sure they couldn’t see you.

Suddenly, a large rough hand claps you around your mouth and nose, and for a split second, you wonder if Sherlock had found you …

You quickly realise it wasn’t your friend, when the hand does not relent, despite your struggling. He was blocking your airways, and you were sure to faint soon …

The man drags you over to the house, the children diving around you and laughing as you continue to struggle. Just as you reach the open door, your eyes begin to cloud over, and you pass out.

 

You blink your eyes rapidly, trying to fight away the black spots that clouded your vision. As you come to, you realise that you have been tied up, quite securely.

A thick rope wrapped around your feet and legs, and another smaller and much tighter rope was around your hands and chest.

As you try and look around the room, you realise with some surprise that things were spinning, and the more you focused, the harder it was to see things without them warping.

You had been drugged …

“You made a grave mistake coming here, senorita.” A deep voice says from the side of the room.

You try and supress an eye roll. The villain lurking in the dark corner; so bloody cliché.

Squinting, you make out a tall male figure. “I was just …”

“I know that you are working with the Police.” The man interrupts, playing with a cigar in his hands as he sinks down into the chair opposite you. “No doubt, you are searching for the man who murdered Garcia.”

You frown, before trying to keep your face expressionless. _Don’t let them see your reactions …_

“I’m guessing you don’t know anything about that …” You reply easily. As the man laughs, you pull slightly on the rope binding your hands. Shit, it was tight.

“Of course not! I know nothing of Garcia …” Your captor responds with a flippant wave of his hand, before turning his attention back to his cigar.

You smile then, unable to contain yourself. Gotcha …

“How do you know he’s dead?” You ask easily, and the man shrugs.

“I heard.” He replies, placing the cigar in his mouth.

“From who?”

The man lights the cigar, and takes a long drag, before laughing at your determined expression, and shakes his head, almost in amusement.

“Brave. You are a brave girl senorita.” The man says, waving his cigar at you almost like a pointed figure.

You shrug as best you can, considering the tight bindings. “Some say brave, most would disagree with that.”

“And what pray tell, would ‘most’ call you?” The man asks, leaning forward in his chair.

“Stupid.”

Suddenly, a tall man sweeps into the room, appearing out of breath and dishevelled. Your captor turns to glare at him, and hisses something in rapid fire Spanish. Or at least, you thought it was Spanish. The man sheepishly responds, before leaving, locking the door behind him with a deafening click.

The captor turns back to you, and begins to twirl the cigar around in his hands, gazing at it …

“You broke into my house …” The man muses, and you can’t help but gulp at his tone. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time he had been faced with a captive.

“I was nowhere near your house.” You snap back, worried for a moment that the drugs were effecting more than just your vision.

“You were stalking my children.”

You struggle slightly, trying to stop your vision from clouding over. “They dived on me. That’s hardly stalking …”

“You should be careful of how you speak, senorita.” The man growls, before finally taking another drag of his cigar.

“You’ve tied me to a fucking chair. I’ll speak to you how I want.”

The man eyes widen, before his face splits into a grin, and it makes your skin crawl. “Do you not know who you speak to?” The man asks, in somewhat broken English.

“Should I?” You reply sarcastically, still moving your bounds slightly. What did Sherlock say about rope again …?

“My name is Don Murillo”

You turn back to the man, raising an eyebrow. He looked like he was expecting a response, and so you nod. “Ok …”

“You truly do not have any idea of what you have walked into.” The man, Don Murillo laughs, before standing.

You smile, your head lolling of its own accord as the drugs begin to reach full effect. “Enlighten me …”

Don Murillo smiles viciously, before slowly moving forward, and gently placing the burning cigar against your shaking skin. 

 

Sherlock can’t keep the satisfied grin from his face as he all but strides out of the Police Station. The butler had told him _everything._ Who had killed Garcia, why …

Garcia had been a friend of a powerful man, but when things changed, and he was required to murder, he left. He ran, and both men came to England to escape. That hadn’t ended well for Garcia, and the butler had to tried to leave, scared that he would be next.

Now all that was needed was to find Don Murillo, and arrest him for the murder of Garcia, and about 10’000 other people …

He was a very powerful, but very dangerous man. Sherlock had been worried that he would need to call Mycroft, but had decided against it. The last thing he needed was his big brother lording his political prowess.

Walking into the pub, Sherlock immediately finds something odd. You weren’t there …

He grabs the nearest person to him at that moment, and asks if he had seen you.

“She was askin’ ‘bout that big house. Think’s …”

Sherlock doesn’t let the man finish before he runs out of the building, calling for the nearby police and Baynes to follow him. He _knew_ there was something about that house, and obviously, you had had the same instinct. Now, he could only hope that you had both been horribly wrong. Don Murillo had murdered an old friend for leaving him. Sherlock dreaded to think what he would do to someone snooping around his hideaway …

 

You blink as your vision begins to clear, and immediately recoil when you realise that someone was crouched next to your chair. You try and listen closely to what they were saying, but can only make out garbles and nonsense …

Sherlock pulls out a pocket knife, and shakes his head in exasperation.

“When I say stay put, _stay put.”_ Sherlock hisses as he cuts the ropes, freeing your arms and torso.

You smile, still wrapped in a drug fuelled haze.

You idly wonder how long you had been unconscious. “He left …”

“To the train station, I know. The police are already there.” Sherlock interrupts, moving to cut your shaking legs from the much thicker rope.

You smile again, swaying slightly as Sherlock sits up to face you. “How …”

“The butler told us everything.” Baynes says from somewhere in the room.

You really must be out of it, you hadn’t even known the man was there.

“Can you stand?” Sherlock asks, resting a hand on your shoulder. Even in your drugged mind, you are surprised by the gesture. It was almost … gentle, which was not a word you thought you’d ever associate with the detective.

“I’ll call an ambulance …” Bayne mutters, obviously worried that you had just been swaying and smiling, and not responding to your friend.

“No need, we’re going home.”

Before you can respond, Sherlock gently places a hand under your legs and around your shoulders, and easily lifts you. He walks out of the room quickly, pointedly not looking at the cigar stubs littering the floor, and the blood staining your arms and legs.

There were hundreds of officers outside when you and Sherlock emerge from the huge manor house. It surprises you, and so you turn to look up at your friend.

“I thought you said they were going to the train station …”

“They’re gathering evidence.” Sherlock responds quickly, shifting your weight slightly as he walks over to a waiting police car.

“Did they catch him?” You slur, as Sherlock lowers you to the floor, allowing you to slide in the car.

“Yes.” Sherlock responds, and you catch his smile as he moves to sit next you to.

“Good.” Is all you manage to say, before you close your eyes, and fall asleep once again.

Two hours later, Baynes had allowed you and Sherlock to leave and catch a train back to London. He had been confused, but no less excited when Sherlock had told him that he didn’t want his name anywhere on the case notes. The world would believe Baynes solved the case, and the Detective was thrilled with that.

You shift around in your train chair, wincing as you brush up against a recent burn. Sherlock had assured you he would be taking a look when you got home, and you hoped by ‘take a look’ he hadn’t meant, poke and study.

“When did you know?” You murmur, barely awake.

“The note.”

“The note they found in Garcia’s pocket?” You question, watching as Sherlock flicks through his notebook in the chair opposite you.

“Yes.”

“You knew what it meant?”

“Not straight away, but I recognised the flag.”

You frown then, shitting up a little straighter. “Flag?”

“ _Our own colours, Green and White_.”  Sherlock recites, and he sounds exhausted, like he has had to explain this before. You didn’t doubt that he probably had. “San Pedro’s national flag.”

“That … that was hours ago. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock sighs. “I needed more data. Besides, I knew Detective Baynes would get there eventually.”

You smile slightly, hearing the hidden compliment in Sherlock’s words. “You like him”

“He is a credit to his profession. He will go far I’m sure. And I don’t say that often.”

“What about the rest of the note?”

“It wasn’t a warning, it was a trap.”

You sigh, suddenly understanding. “D, was for Don Murlillo.”

Sherlock nods, before pocketing his notebook. “Garcia panicked, and tried to run. Murillo knew then he had the right man, so murdered him.”

“Why?”

Sherlock shrugs “Don Murillo is also known as The Tiger. He has leagues of henchmen, assassins, drug cartels …”

“So you think Garcia used to work for him or something?”

“Most likely. He doesn’t seem to be the type to forgive and forget.”

You shake your head, amused that your once simple case had turned out like this. “All of this because of Professor  Eccles …”

“He seems to have a knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I thought you would have said ‘right place, right time’. After all, he helped catch a murderer …”

“True.” Sherlock replies quickly, before looking over to you, and smiling.

You laugh, before suddenly becoming woozy.

“You’re still under the effects of the drugs.”

“No shit, Sherlock …” You murmur, before closing your eyes and resting your head up against the train window.

Just as you begin to drift off, you hear Sherlock softly speak your name. You turn, or more like, roll your head in the man’s direction.

“Hmm …” You murmur in response, trying to fight sleep. 

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and actually appears to gulp, before turning to look out his window.

“Don’t do that again.”

Your eyes widen for a moment, and you were glad that Sherlock wasn’t facing in your direction. Was this … was he worried? “Promise.” You respond sincerely, all humour forgotten for a moment.

“Good.”

You watch the man for a moment, unable to keep the smile from your face. Sherlock was almost pouting, and burning a hole in the window with his unblinking expression.

“Go back to sleep …” Sherlock nearly hisses, and you laugh quickly, before closing your eyes.

“I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping …”

 

* * *

“Wiggins?” You call out, and hear an almighty sigh just as the man’s face comes into view.

“Well about bloody time, I was worried about yah …”

“Do you recognise this?”

You hold up the plectrum directly in front of the man’s face, not taking even a second to explain why you had been so late. The client had been interesting, but you hadn’t really been paying attention.

The small item had felt heavy in your pocket, and at the first chance you had got, you had raced to meet with Wiggins once again, only a quick text saying ‘meet me’ in explanation.

“Should I?” The man asks, and you sigh, defeated. 

“Never mind.”

You knew all of your friends had known that Bill was a music teacher, but didn’t know for certain who had known about his lucky plectrum.

None of your group had taken it from his possessions, most saying when you had questioned them that hadn’t even seen if before. Wiggins was the last person to ask, and he too didn’t recognise it. You were back to square one, and were exhausted.

You sink down onto the wet floor, not even stopping to pull your coat out of the way.  

“Hey, what’s going on?” Wiggins asks kindly, moving to sit next to you. “You know, we are here to help.”

“Yeah. You’re here to help Sherlock.” You reply somewhat bitterly, but Wiggins is already shaking his head.

“No, not just Sherlock.”

You sigh, and turn to your companion with a determined expression.

“I need you to find out who broke into St Bart’s last night.”

“Got it.” The man replies simply, pulling out his phone. “What about the police?”

“They’re not investigating, because nothing was technically stolen. But this could be about fraud, or forgery …” You muse.  

Wiggins nods, before he begins to type ‘Try the café’s down town and see if anyone’s selling any information about any dead person’ into his phone.

“What kind of information do ya think it’ll be?”

“Height, weight … just random information. But it has to be from someone who has recently died. All of the records in that room are only kept there for six months maximum”

“Why the hell would people want that?” Wiggins asks, although he doesn’t look up from his rapid typing.

“A new life.” You reply simply, and your companion nods in understanding “A deceased person’s identity is pretty easy to assume. They don’t tend to argue with you …”

“So, you recon someone’s got info from Bart’s.”

“Yeah, and I need to find out who got it.”

“What if it was summat else?” Wiggins asks, but you are already shaking your head.

“It wasn’t. The only room they were interested in was the room where they stored all the documents. No files are actually missing though, so that means someone read it, or took a picture of it, then got the hell out of there.”

“Alright. Gimme an hour or so, we should have some more info.”

“Thanks Wiggins.”

True to his word, the man reappears exactly an hour and a half later. You had remained in the same spot, and are almost startled when Wiggins suddenly comes into view.

“Well?”

“Sorry, the only thing I could find was this …” Wiggins holds up his phone, showing you a small grainy picture.

“That’s one of the files.” You realise, and your heart begins to beat faster. You were on to something “Where was it?”

“It was on Facebook, of all places. Meredith hooked it up in an internet café.”

“Ok.” You nod to yourself, trying to keep yourself relatively calm. Sherlock never lost his cool, and neither could you. “Whose it for?”

“Just some young kid that overdosed a week ago. It’s not a new file or anything.” Wiggins says, before reading the name “Matt Bolton.”

“Okay … okay …” You get up from the ground and begin to pace, nodding to yourself as you think everything through. “So these people broke into Bart’s last night, took a picture of a file, put it on the internet,” Wiggins nods, telling you that you were right, and so you continue “But they drop something,” You reach into your pocket and pull out the plectrum.  

“Why don’t we tell Sherlock about this?” Wiggins asks, and you shake your head once again.

“No, he’s got enough to worry about.” You reply simply, frowning as you try to answer Wiggins and keep thinking. “This is my case.”

“Fair enough.” The man replies, flicking through his phone once again. No doubt he had just gotten a message from someone else in The Network.

“We need to find these guys. Find them, and I think we can find who killed Bill.”

“What if it’s the same guys?” Wiggins asks with a frown.

“I’m counting on it.” You reply honestly, before your phone buzzes in your coat pocket. You ignore it, and continue to pace.

“So lemme get this straight … They break into somewhere to take a picture of a file,” You nod in answer, and Wiggins scoffs. “Why not just take the file?”

“Because we’d know what they took.” When Wiggins looks confused, you sigh, and suddenly realise this is what it must be like to be Sherlock. “If there was one file missing, it would be really obvious what they wanted and what they took. But nothing was missing, so the police wouldn’t be able to get involved, and we’d have no idea what they were looking for.”

“Got’cha.” Wiggins replies, pocketing his phone and moving to stand. “But then why put it on the internet?”

“Who knows, but that’s not the point. These people, they must be hired by someone …”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s too random otherwise, killing a homeless man and then the file?” You shake your head, and your phone buzzes once again. “No these must be connected, but we have to figure out how …”

“You think these guys killed Bill.”

You hold up the plectrum, waving it in the man’s face. “Why would they have this otherwise Wiggins? And why wouldn’t they have taken all the money?”

“Good point sunshine.”

Suddenly your phone buzzes once again, and sensing that it wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, you reluctantly pull it out.

“It’s Sherlock.”

“You better get back. I’ll keep an eye out on this …” Wiggins replies, holding up his phone in signal that he was going to keep investigating.

You stop the man as he starts to walk away, turning him to face you. “Just us Wiggins, please keep this between us.”

“Alright …”

“Tell everyone they’re investigating for Sherlock, but not what. And don’t mention this …” You hold up the plectrum once again, and Wiggins nods. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

You walk away, reading your messages from Sherlock as you do.

_New client arrived. SH_

_Come make tea. Client is waiting. SH_

_Where are you? SH_

“Tell Sherlock I said hi!” Wiggins calls to you, and you raise a hand in a signal you heard him, before typing a quick reply to Sherlock, and heading back to Baker Street.


End file.
